Undercover
by Serena Bancroft
Summary: We all know that Jessica Angell was shot. But what we don't know is that she didn't die. The FBI have requested her for a special assignment, one that requires her to give up her old life as Jessica Angell and become Sarah Barnes with the Russian gang. The first story in the 'Undercoverse' trilogy.
1. Going Undercover

**Hi all. Yes, to answer your question, I am insane for starting another story. But I am enthusiastic about Flack and Angell's relationship. I am so mad at the writers for killing her off. This is what I think should've happened. It's not just going to be a oneshot :)**

**Disclaimer:**

**Jess: I own Don!**

**Me: No, I do!**

**CBS: Neither of you own him! We do!**

**Me: Fine! Be that way...**

**Jess: Not fine.**

**Me: I own none of the other charecters, CBS does... But the plot and some characters related to the plot are mine.**

* * *

The steady pound of my feet on the treadmill mocked me as my heart pounded in my chest. Sweat coated my skin, making my running shorts and sport bra stick to my skin annoyingly. The thick bandage held on with uncomfortable medical tape still stuck to the healing bullet wound and surgical incision on my flat stomach. The doctors told me not to excercise, but what else was I supposed to to? Sit around in my apartment all day while I healed? Glancing down, I saw a patch of blood beginning to soak through the bandage. Whenever my blood got pumping, it sort of seeped. Some people were built for a life of indolence, but I was not.

What bothered me the most was that I couldn't see Don. I couldn't call him or have any sort of contact with him whatsoever. No one from my past life. Even my family, because as far as they were concerned, the plant ashes they'd been given were me. It all started when I awoke from surgery...

* * *

The haziness of the anesthetic began to lift, and I was gradually getting more and more aware of my surroundings. I heard a slow consistent beep somewhere nearby. Beep... Beep... Beep... I realized it was my heartbeat. An itchiness eminated from my arm, and a plastic tube was wrapped uncomfortably around my face. _A hospital_, I realized with a start. _Why am I in a hospital?_ The question puzzled me for a few moments. _You were shot_, my brain reminded me.

I mentally shuddered at the memory of emptying my clip, and the sickening feeling of the bullet entering my midsection. It was a lot like someone (a REALLY strong someone, by the way) hitting you with an icepick, piercing and hitting at the same time. I remember keeling over backwards, I remember Don's voice over me, as he begged me to hang on, yelling for an ambulance. I'd heard the panic in his voice, which had scared me. Don had always been a source of bottomless courage, and never once had I seen him flater. The panic in his voice made me want to wrap my arms around his shoulders and say, 'It's okay, Don. I'm okay.' But somehow, my brain's command of telling my mouth to move got lost somewhere. I hadn't been able to move or speak. I must've blacked out, because I don't remember much else.

My eyes now flickered open, examining my surroundings. I was in an impersonal hospital room, outfitted it white. There were no windows, which I was painfully aware of. The wall I faced, which also held the door, was almost entirely glass. At least this gave me something to watch, as there was no TV in my room. Outside was a regular, industrial looking hallway, occasionally, a doctor or nurse would go bustling by, but other than that, I was alone. Beside my bed was an empty, ominous looking one. I hoped that the former tenant of that bed had left it under happy circumstances.

Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, a doctor held up outside my room, and coming inside. She had to be in her late thirties, with short blonde hair tied in a ponytail and a smattering of freckles across her face. Her eyes were greener than Ireland, and her face showed kindness. "Jessica Angell?"

"Yes?"

"My name is Dr. Diane Florek. I was the one who performed your surgery." she explained kindly.

"Oh, yeah. Um, thank you. For saving my life, I mean." I said.

"No need to thank me, Jessica. It's what I do," she said, laughing. But soon, her laughing mood vanished, being replaced with a cool professionalism. "But we need to talk about the reprocussions of your injury, Jessica."

"Wait, reprocussions?" I asked confused. "You mean there's lasting damage?" I dug my fingers into the sheets, clenching the sheets in my palms until my knuckles turned white. I quickly wiggled my toes to make sure my legs worked. They did. I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Yes. When the bullet entered your stomach, it dinged around a little bit. It tore a hole in your stomach, and some of the stomach acid damaged your intestines. Do you have children, Jessica?"

I was a bit thrown off by her abrupt segway in topic. "Oh, um, no. I don't have any children. Why?"

"Because when that bullet hit you, it basically shredded one of your ovaries. We tried to repair it, but in the end, it was best to just remove it. You still have one left, so you can still have children, it's just a lot less likely you can get pregnant." she paused. "I imagine that's something you'd like to keep private, so in the official report, I just said you had 'extensive internal damage.'"

I stared blankly at her absorbing her words. I hadn't really thought about children before. I mean, I'd thought I'd end up marrying Don, having a few kids, and getting a dog kind of thing, but I'd never really considered not being able to get pregnant.

"Can I see Don?" I asked her quietly. "I need to talk to him. Just him."

Dr. Florek glanced behind her, worry crossing her features. "I'm so sorry honey, but there are these two men outside from the FBI who say they have to talk to you right away."

I started getting paranoid when she said that, afraid it was those people who'd driven the truck into the bar and shot me. "Send them in," I said, looking around for my gun or some other form of self-defense.

Moments after Dr. Florek scurried off, I heard, "Miss Angell?"

I looked up to see two men standing in front of my bed. The one who spoke was a burly, black guy who was bald and clean-shaven. "Yes?" I said, my voice guarded, still wary of these guys.

"My name is Dan Spieka, Director of Homeland Security,"

The guy next to Mr. Spieka spoke up. He had auburn hair and freaky yellow-green eyes, "And I'm Special Agent Thomas Reed, head of the FBI's drug task force."

"We have a special assignment for you."

* * *

And so, Witness Protection had given me a new identity, Sarah Anne Barnes, born April 18, 1983, parents Jennifer Mary Sands Barnes and Robert David Barnes. I was from New Ulm, Minnesota and I'd lost my husband, Don Allen Flocks, in the war. Just the fact that they'd used a name so close to my real Don's name was adding insult to injury. Today, I was supposed to get my hair cut, dyed, and styled, I'd get temporary tatoos so I'd fit in with my new 'assignment'. As vain as it was, I really did not want to get my hair cut. I happened to like my brunette locks.

My assignment was to go undercover with a Russian drug-dealing gang. I could literally bust hundreds of drug-dealing scumbags and make the city a whole lot safer. As honorable and important this assignment was, part of me wasn't sure it was worth giving up Don for. They said that I might be able to go back to my old life in a couple of years. Key word might. They wanted to keep my identity intact.

I got off the treadmill, switching the power off as I went. I slipped off my running shoes, and walked somewhat lethargically into the bathroom. I stripped out of my clothes, tossing them in a heap on the tiled floor of the bathroom. I stared at my stomach intently in the mirror. Gritting my teeth, I gingerly ripped the bandage off my wound, and a thin stream of blood dripped from it, running down my stomach like a miniature creek. The stitches that held the wound closed grabbed at the cottony gauze bandage and I winced.

The would was starting to heal, slowly but surely. The hole the bullet had ripped into my flash was starting to close, and the bruising around it was fading from black to purple. The surgical incision was almost healed- a sure sign of Dr. Florek's careful cutting. I would be able to go and get those stitches removed within the week.

Trying my best to forget about reality for a while, a turned on the shower and stepped in. I hardly noticed the scalding water as it ran over my body. I honestly didn't care if all my skin got burned away, and I probably wouldn't have noticed. I thought a lot about Don, and my old job at the NYPD. Silent tears flowed freely down my cheeks when I thought about Don's and my first time together, how we flowed together so perfectly, as thought our bodies had been crafted just for each other. I replayed every single detail in mind mind over and over again, like a sickening broken record of my best memories. Best memories that would have no repeats in the foreseeable future.

I suddenly became conscious of how many minutes I'd spent in the shower. After quickly washing my hair, I jumped out, wrapping a white, fluffy towel around my midsection, and another around my hair. I got dressed quickly, and I went to the kitchen to redress the stitched up surgical incision and bullet wound, carefully apply the medicated ointment, bandage, and medical tape.

I was smoothing out the tape when I heard a knock at the door that told me my undercover partner was here. Detective Andy Anderson was a tough-as-nails, no nonsense cop who came from the Bronx, and whose name I loved to tease him about. He was freakishly tall-almost seven feet-and had dark brown hair with emerald colored eyes. He even went as far as to slick his hair back with the kind hair gel that made his hair have a highly glossy look and remind me of Ace Ventura. Although it would've been nice if he's actually been as funny as Ace Ventura, but I take what I can get. He also reminded me a lot of Elvis, but I never really brought this up. I had enough material for my jokes on him without bringing the king of rock into the equation. Opening the door, I saw Andy wore his same stoic, but slightly angry expression. "Morning, sunshine," I said sarcastically opening the door wider.

As usual, Andy didn't crack a smile or send back a teasing reply as Don would've done. "Good morning, Detective Angell." he said, his voice tight and controlled. His dark green eyes shot daggers at me whenever I insisted he call me Jess or Jessica, or something not so formal, so I mostly kept my mouth shut. "Are you ready to leave?"

"As I'll ever be," I admitted reluctantly. I threw a quick glance over my shoulder at my old apartment. Witness Protection and the FBI allowed me to keep it, but I wouldn't be allowed to live anywhere near it.

We exited the building and we climbed into Andy's FBI standard issue armored sedan. The engine roared to life and we were off to the J. Edgar Hoover FBI building a few hours away in Washington, D.C.

* * *

I'd never assumed there'd be a beauty salon of sorts in the basement of the building, but with a fully functioning undercover unit, everything was necessary. They clipped, dyed, styled, and tortured my hair into submission. I'd closed my eyes at the beginning, not wanting to see the atrocities they were committing against my hair.

"Jessie," my stylist cooed, "open your eyes and see the miracle I have worked here!" This woman was one who enjoyed her work _way _more than was healthy. I gingerly opened my eyes, my pupils adjusting to the light. I took in the sight before me while trying to keep Andy's expression, which was hard. My once long hair was now cropped into a tight bob at my chin, and was dyed an almost white blonde. I had sidesweep bangs that covered one of my eyes. I looked like a totally different Jessica. Or Sarah, rather. Almost invisible white streaks ran down my hair, giving it an almost ghostly glow. "Now you get to move on to tattoos, darlin'." I stood from the chair, but my stylist pushed a small white box into my hand. Glancing at the label, I read: Colored Eye Contacts: Midnight Blue Waters. I almost scoffed out loud at the ridiculous name. "Don't forget to put these in, hon." She then scooted me off with a flourish of her large hands to do with her next assignment,

I walked through the room, and across to a freaky looking chick with a nose piercing and a huge hole in her ear lobe. She proceeded to tattoo nearly every inch of my body, with flowers, thorns, dragons, and just about everything else imaginable. She even added an intricate heart design on the small of my back with the name 'Don' in the middle. That was the only tattoo I liked. "Don't worry," she said with a weird smile, showing off her huge lip ring which hadn't really been noticeable before, "These aren't permanent. You'll have to come in in another six months to get them redone."

Afterwards, I was given a whole new wardrobe, which basically consisted of clothes that would have immediately set off my red light as a cop. And stuff that was ugly as hell. First, I was dressed in a super tight, white tank top, that did not leave much to the imagination, and my black lacy bra was clearly visible. I also wore baggy jeans with more pockets than could ever be used by someone who was not in the military, and those shoes with the poofy tongues that no one wore right.

I finally met back up with Andy. He was wearing similar clothes, his face still stoic. "Hey there, Eyore." I said, joking halfheartedly.

He all but ignored my quip and said, "Special Agent Reed would like a word with us."

* * *

**Sorry about this sloppily written chapter. I hate exposition, especially when a lot of boring stuff (Jess's undercover makeover) have to happen. Let me know if I should continue. I guess even if you don't want me to, I will anyway :P haha. Five Roses Thorns Buds reviews to next chapters. (Roses= what you liked. Thorns=what you didn't like. Buds= what you hope to see next chapter) I don't like being picky, but I won't count the ones that just say, ' good keep going' or 'i love it'. Elaboration helps me be a better writer. Sorry for the loong footnote :P -SB**


	2. One Last Word

**Happy second chapter. This is pretty much more exhibition, but please don't skip it! You be lost if you do! A grand total of one person actually followed my RTB review system, but i like the other reviews too :) Anyway, thank you for all the support on this story. I wasn't sure how it'd be received...**

* * *

I followed behind Andy as placidly as a puppy, but my eyes were darting around like a nervous rabbit. As we approached Special Agent Reed's door, I began to rabidly hope he was going to tell us that the job was off, we didn't need to go undercover as planned. I fiercely wanted to get out of these stupid clothes, scrub off these fake tattoos, and pop out these annoying contacts, and go inform everyone I loved I wasn't really dead. But as soon as we entered his office and I saw Special Agent Reed's face, I knew we were still going undercover as planned.

Damn.

"Detective Angell, Detective Anderson," he greeted curtly with a quick nod before diving into our introduction to going undercover. He gave us 50 page packets, and showed us a big power point on the power-players of the Russian Gang. "The one we're really trying to go after is this man," he said flipping the slide to a picture of a very ominous looking guy. He was tan enough to be Asian, but his facial features were clearly American. He had tattoos on nearly every inch of visible skin that was not covered by a white wife-beater and jean shorts that sagged to his ankles. "That, friends, is Dmitri Kaskov, but to hide his gang roots, he usually goes by Shay Walker. He's about 6"11, 230 pounds. He is 35 years old, and took over for his ailing father, Aleksandr, when he was 23. If we take him down, the gang will have no leader, and will eventually fall apart. And who knows, we may be able to figure out some kind of bargain with Dmitri that will make him give us evidence for the rest of the gang."

"What about Aleksandr? Couldn't he step up again?" Andy asked in his normal 'I'm-Here-On-Business-And-What-You-Say-Means-Nothing-To-Me-I'm-Merely-Covering-The-Bases-And-Being-Polite' tone.

"Highly unlikely," Reed answered, "He's got some disease with a really long name that causes extreme pain and eventually death. I doubt Aleksandr even has the energy to speak right now, let alone run a gang. It'll be best just to let nature take it's course with him." He paused as he looked us in the eyes. The freaky green-yellow eyes gave me the chills as always, and he said, "Are you both ready for this? You both have excellent records as cops, and no run-ins whatsoever."

Part of me wanted to scream 'No, I am not ready for this! You should find someone else!' while the other said, 'What would Don think if you were giving up the safety of a city of millions just to be with him? He wouldn't want that.' the conflicting messages paralyzed me, and I sat silently and motionlessly.

We all stood simultaneously, as if on cue. "Well, I wish you both luck. Please visit the Ballistics department to get your weaponry, then to Human Resources to see Irina. She's from Russia and will teach you the accent. Again, good luck."

As we turned away, Reed spoke up again, "Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Detective Anderson, I am so sorry about your wife. My condolences. Sabrina was a good woman, and one helluva FBI agent."

For the first time ever since I'd met him, emotion flickered across Andy's face. Deep resentment, and sadness were etched into his face. I don't think I've ever seen many people that sad, except maybe my father at my mother's funeral.

As soon as it appeared, it was gone, replaced with the cool, calm, collected Andy I knew. But now, looking deeper, I could plainly see the hurt within. It was a lot like when someone tries to hide behind a tree; You may not be able to see them right away, but once you get a glimpse, it's dead obvious they're there. "I appreciate your concern sir. Thank you."

We exited Special Agent Reed's Office, Andy taking long purposeful strides, obviously taken to avoid conversation with anyone, namely me. "Andy," I called, nearly running to keep up with his freakishly long legs. "Andy." I said, a little more adamant this time. I was jogging next to him now. I grabbed his arm, and yanked back so he was at a standstill. "Andy, what the hell?" I said, getting really up in his face. "Why didn't you tell me-"

Abruptly he started walking towards the Ballistics department door, which was now in sight. I could take someone shutting me out, but walking all over me was something I didn't take lightly. Stretching my legs as far as they'd go, I stepped directly in front of Andy, and shoved him against a wall. It wasn't a real hot and heavy thing, it was a more of a Jess-is-Pissed thing. My jaw was clenched in anger, my eyes burning. I'm sure if looks could kill, Andy would be dead now. "Look here now, Andy. I can deal with the fact that you didn't bother to tell the only person you're going to be able to trust for the next couple of years that you had a wife. But when you don't answer me, and just ignore me? I do not let _anyone_ walk all over me. Got that, tough guy?" I punctuated each word with a tight clench of my fist, turning my knuckles white and pressing my tendons against my skin.

There was a slight look of intimidation in Andy's eye when he said, "Got it." But it quickly disappeared as soon as it had come. I began to wonder if I imagined it.

"Good. And smiling once in a while and calling me Angell or Jess once in a while wouldn't be the end of the world." I turned away before I could see or hear his response. Beyond this door, would be another step into a world of unknowns, a world of extreme danger, and a world where I couldn't have Don.

**A/N: Sorry about the super short chapter. I hope I didn't write anyone too out of character. Five RTB reviews to next chapter. GRACIAS! -SB**


	3. Worst Nightmare

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! Even though I didn't get the five I wanted, I just got so excited about this chapter that I had to put it up! By the way, I dropped the chapter that I wrote that I described their integration into the gang, but it was total crap, so this takes place about six months after Jess and Andy's joining the gang. I'll try to pack in as much prelude info as possible. Thanks for being loyal readers! -SB**

I glared down at the condom full of heroine I was meant to swallow. I was all by myself, and Dmitri, well, Shay actually, had given me this to take to some place I hadn't heard. The FBI said they'd deal with the delivery I'd never make. Sitting alone in my new apartment, I wondered what I'd do with it. Stash it in the cupboard? Flush it down the toilet? Pop it open and rinse it down the sink? Opting for the cupboard option, I tossed the condom into one of the old wood cabinets in her kitchen, not paying attention to where I threw it. I flopped back down on the smelly, reddish brown couch in my apartment. I was getting sick of this already, only six months in. I was getting sick of my mostly trashy wardrobe. Now I wore a micro jean-skirt, black leggings, red midriff shirt that didn't leave much to the imagination, and red stilettos that were killing my poor feet. The only thing that felt at home was the gun in my belt. I had several actually, two around each ankle (which were quite poorly concealed by those damn leggings), one on the small of my back, and two on my hips. Lots of firepower. It made me feel safe at least.

This whole gang thing just made me feel unsafe. This guy Shay was really creeping. He seemed like... he had kind of taken to me. I mean, he wasn't shabby looking, but he's not Don. He doesn't make me smile. He doesn't make me laugh. He doesn't make me feel safe. He doesn't make me feel loved. All he does is make me feel gross, like ants are crawling all over me, and leaches are sucking my blood. All he does is check me out, and says, 'Hey, baby' or 'Sweet cheeks, mind takin' Jamie's weed to him today?' It made me feel like a whore. A cheap whore.

Six months into the job, my fake tattoos were starting to wear off. Quite a few were still visible, but enough had worn off that people noticed. I'd made some lame excuse about a tattoo artist ripping me off. Shay had offered to put him 'six feet under' for me, (his words, not mine.) but I refused and just breathed a sigh of relief that they'd bought it. My blonde hair was still the same. The people at the FBI recommended that I at least keep one thing about the me that was Sarah Barnes. Eventually, I'd let it grow out again. The people in the gang could deal. Hell, my brown roots were already starting to show again, which made me look even creepier.

I shook off the fit a chills that washed over me. I had to get up early tomorrow morning to deliver a shipment of coke to one of our Manhattan customers. Stripping out of my clothing, I flopped into bed with my favorite gray tank top and Cookie Monster shorts. I shut of the lights, but sleep did not come easily. My thoughts just kept swirling. Like a whirlpool. Just swirling, swirling, swirling, swirling until they eventually disappeared into the blackness of sleep.

But soon, a dream fuzzed into focus. I was laying on the floor of the bar that was crashed into, where I was shot. Where my life as Jessica Angell ended. There were a few flames, and the cold faces that were void of life around me, their souls swirling as a white fog around them. Their expressions looked as if they couldn't believe what had just happened. They weren't the only ones. Other than that, no one was there but me. I tried to breathe, but nothing happened. I was frozen, my body cold. I could feel the blood coursing out of my wound and coating my clothing with the dark red substance. It was terrifying: to feel your life pour out of you, and be powerless to stop it. I tried to move my arms, but they stayed put, lying somewhere at my sides. Usually I could tell when I was dreaming, and a quick pinch could return me to my bedroom, but these dreams, the ones after I got shot, were so real. I felt the pain. I felt my body grow weaker, feebly grasping onto any stands of life it could hold on to.

Finally, the cold paralysis was gone and I began to scream, my limbs giving weak attempts to flail as I died. I knew this was it. I screamed louder. And screamed and screamed and screamed. My throat burned, and my lungs ached, but I didn't care. I smelled smoke in my nostrils, and was looking up at the cracked brown ceiling, my eyelids drooping, succumbing to the lack of blood coursing through my veins.

Then I wasn't there.

I sat up with a start, finding myself in my bedroom, breathing hard and sweat coating my skin. I glanced around confirming I was actually here. Sloppily painted sky blue walls. Cracked white ceiling. One dirty window. Two old wood doors that looked like they had a greenish tint to them- one leading to my closet, the other to the living room. I took a couple of deep, steady breaths, trying to calm my erratic heartbeat. My limbs were tangled in the white cotton sheets, and I quickly extracted them and stood, feeling a small head rush as I did so.

I walked to the wall to the left of my bed where the window was. I needed some air. After a few shoves and swears of frustration, the window opened, creaking and groaning. The former tenants of this apartment must not have used it much. The view was pretty shitty, to say the least. Mostly, I could only see the tops of some buildings, and a few alleyways and dumpsters. But in the distance, I could make out the outline of the city, with its flashing lights and massive skyscrapers. I could hear the distant sounds of partying and having fun, of car horns and police sirens. It was the city I'd come to love.

I leaned my torso out the window, despite the six floor gap between the ground and myself. I rested my hands on the short, concrete ledge just outside the window, which was caked in moss and some brown stuff that I couldn't identify. I took deep breaths, in through my nose, out through my mouth, repeating over and over until my heart was back to a slow, steady rhythm.

Every night, something like this happened. The dreams felt so real. Ever since the shooting, I had dreams like this. These dreams that could dim my perception between dream and reality. They often scared me out of my sleep, hanging in my head until consciousness forced them out. What hurt me the most is that I couldn't deal with it. I couldn't tell anyone about it. Sure, I had Andy, but we weren't exactly friends per se. We were more 'reluctant colleagues.'

Tears forced their way out of my eyes, and fell from my chin to the cold concrete below. Don would've been there for me. He would've comforted me, listened to me, cared for me. Part of me just wanted to suck it up, and be the strong Jess I knew I was, but another part wanted to just curl up in a corner and let my self-pity consume me. Deciding to compromise between the two, I allowed myself a few more moments of self-pity, before dragging the dirty window shut.

_**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**_

Shay usually checks the GPS in our cars-mostly my Tahoe given to me by the FBI- to see if we've actually been to where we're supposed to go, so I drove into lower Manhattan. Parking the car, and jamming a few packets of coke into the pockets of my cropped leather jacket for good measure, just in case I ran into someone from the gang. The green stilettos I wore made running impossible, much to my dismay if I actually ran into anyone. Today, I actually wore a more comfortable ensemble, a loose sea-foam green sleeveless halter top with gold chains hanging everywhere that fell to my mid-thigh beneath the leather jacket. As much as I hated the metallic gold leggings I wore, at least it wasn't so tight that I had the option of not wearing a bra. For once in six long months, I let myself just walk, and enjoy the solidarity and peace. Normally, there's guns, sex, and drugs in the gang, and it was nice just to be by myself, with just my thoughts. My many guns were still hanging all over, but at least it was quiet. The feminine part of me wished there were some shops or something so I could window-shop at the very least.

I tried my very, very best not to think about him during these few quiet times. Whenever I thought about him, how we couldn't be together, and my terrible situation that deserved to be made into a 'Lifetime' movie tears often found their way out of the ducts where I thought I'd had them pretty solidly locked up. I'd never been much of a cryer. Yet these past months, I'd cried more than I had in my entire life. Instead of focusing on things that would make the tears bust out, I focused on the steady sound of my breathing, the soft tinkle of the chains on my shirt, the loud, yet consistent beat of my feet on the concrete.

I don't know how long I'd just walked in a straight line until I had finally let my mind go blank as I walked along the warehouse district, until I saw him, probably at the precise moment that he saw me. I swore out loud. A crime scene. Why did I have to go down THIS street, at the PRECISE time, that that poor dead person had to be found- who was probably killed by one of the gang's customers-, that he got assigned to THIS case, had to arrive at the scene at the time that he did, and be standing right outside the building, right where I was in his sightline. I turned swiftly on my heel, knowing immediately little red flags would go up in Don's mind.

"Shit," I whispered to myself again. I decided I must've done something terrible, some venial sin or whatever the hell they talk about in church. I hadn't been to church since my mom died, so I didn't really know the difference, but doesn't God punish people? Well, I decided then and there that God must have a personal mission to go out of His way to make my life a living hell. And Jesus Christ it was working. (No pun intended)

My stomach dropped as I heard his voice. "Excuse me, ma'am?" I threw a quick glance over my shoulder. Don was coming up behind me. "_Shit._" I cussed again. I didn't control my head as it swiveled to get one more look at him. It was although some magnet just pulled me to him. He still looked the same- kind eyes, lilting, purposeful walk, easy smile, dark hair, smooth voice... It made me want to melt into a puddle of girlie goo. Instead I thought like an undercover cop. He's going to blow your cover, a voice whispered. _Run._ Don was close enough to me now that he'd be able to see my many guns slung around my body. I heard him draw his weapon from his clip, "Ma'am, please put your hands up, and put all of your weapons on the ground slowly," he said, slow and steady, like I was a dangerous stallion who needed to be tamed.

Which technically, I was, considering the many guns and drugs I had in my pockets. Instead of doing as he asked, which, dear God, I wanted to do, in one motion, I whipped off my heels, threw them in Don's direction, and withdrew my main gun from my right hip. I wasn't going to shoot him, but I couldn't have him thinking up anything fancy about why I had a million guns but wasn't going for a single one of them. Now in my bare feet, I took off running in the direction I'd come from, hoping that in my unfocused haze I hadn't come very far.

I heard of of my heels thud against his body, and him mutter a ripe curse. The instinctual part of me that was always tied to Don wanted me to turn around and see if he was okay. But my brain overrode my heart and I ran faster, pumping my arms and legs as hard as I could, my naked feet slapping softly against the pavement.

"Freeze!" I heard Don yell, apparently recovered from my assault with my deadly heels. "Danny! I've got a runner!"

_Shit, not Danny too,_ I thought. It was enough having to face my boyfriend- let alone him- plus a close friend. I just ran faster, hoping to reach the Tahoe before they caught up. Pumping my arms faster and faster, I ran as swiftly as my naked feet could carry me. "Freeze! NYPD! Put down your weapons!" Both Danny and Don were yelling to me now, and I could tell they were getting closer and closer. Their shoe-clad feet were much quicker on the rough gravel surface. I screeched around a corner, feeling like a cartoon character or an action hero, I could finally see my Tahoe ahead. Fifty more feet, and I'd be there.

Peeking around my shoulder, Don was less than two feet away, and Danny five. I couldn't let Don look into my eyes. Everything happened in slow motion, like I was watching a movie through my eyes. His hand caught my arm, and it threw my whole run wildly off balance. Waving my arms, and pumping my legs faster, I tried to regain my balance, get my legs back underneath me, but it didn't work. I tumbled down to the pavement, my face scraping hard. I felt skin being peeled away from my face, and warm, sticky blood coating my right cheek. My palms were becoming scraped from trying to break my fall. The gun I'd been carrying clattered to the ground and skidded to a stop a few feet away from me. As I lay there for the second before Danny and Don would heave me up and search me for the drugs I knew they would find, I mentally prepared myself to speak with my Russian accent.

As soon as I was standing Don got me against the red brick wall of a warehouse. I placed my hands on the cool surface, which felt good against my stinging palms, and spread my legs, just as I knew was regulatory for searches. He frisked me, while Danny held the gun on me, and I just looked down, watching Don run his hands over my body. Personally I didn't mind the view of him- his strong, graceful hands running over my body, my muscles began to twitch expectantly, needing him to be closer to-damn. I tried to reset my mind again, which was now all discombobulated by Don's touch. As soon as he got all of my guns clear of my body, he made his way up the the many pockets on my jacket. "You're packing some major firepower there ma'am. Would you mind telling us what you're planning on using those for?" Danny asked me, observing my load of weaponry laid out on the sidewalk.

"I'm sorry, Officers," I said, my heavy Russian accent conveniently concealing my real voice. "I don't understand what I've done wrong," I desperately hoped they wouldn't recognize my voice, even though it was cloaked in the thick Russian accent. Despite my best efforts, my voice sounded wobbly and panicked. I kept my eyes locked on the ground, trying to steady my crazy heartbeat and labored breathing.

I held my breath when Don finally discovered the coke I'd been hiding. He pulled a few bags out of my pockets, and I knew that he must be thinking 'Score' right about now. "Well, look what we have here, Danny." Don said, waving the coke in front of my face, trying his best to get me to look up. "I'm pretty sure this is illegal in any country."

"I'm not saying anything," I said, pouring on my Russian accent. "Without my lawyer."

**A/N: Cliffish. Please review! I'm asking 7 RTB reviews to next chapter (what a number). And I know you will because you love me :P or you wanna see what happens, but I like my first answer better. -SB**

**PS: a lot of the ideas that people are suggesting in their reviews are actually a part of my plot, crazy as it sounds. maybe i'm a mind reader... you're thinking of... cheez-its? yeah, me too.**


	4. Calm Before the Storm

**A/N: Recap- Don and Danny have arrested Jess. Intense, I know. Thanks for the reviews. -SB**

They hauled me away from my Tahoe after cuffing me, and dragged me back to the crime scene. My gaze traveled around the sidewalk, searching for my green stilettos that I'd thrown at Don. Luck was definitely playing for the other team today. His hands were holding one of my shoulders, the other on my crooked elbow. We returned to the crime scene, where a squad car was waiting, presumably for me.

I groaned inwardly at the sizable crowd that had grown in front of the crime scene, mostly members of the ever annoying press. Pressed against the yellow tape, flashes of photographers indicated that hundreds, if not thousands, of pictures were being taken to be exploited in papers and across the internet. Information-hungry reporters shouted questions at the cops and CSI's on duty, thrusting recorders and microphones in their faces. I had a feeling that there were going to be a lot of 'No Comment' answers given.

But then, they struck the motherload of news: me. There was a split second where everything was still, almost as though time itself had frozen for a moment. Then, chaos broke out. Reporters descended on me and Don like a swarm of hungry piranhas, thrusting microphones and recorders into our faces, demanding answers but receiving nothing. Photographers began clicking in a frenzy, and making a nearly constant flash blinding me as we made our way to the car. The shouts of the press were almost deafening, and it leveled out into a constant hum of questions I didn't hear. Except for one question that seemed to be most popular, was yelled above the rest, the one my ears picked up before any others: _Did you kill Melissa Danning?_

I wanted to scream at them call them all sorts of names and make boneless threats, but I didn't. I couldn't engage the media. That'd only make things worse. The piranhas pressed in closer, and I was constantly being tripped and grabbed. Our clear path to the squad car was now blocked by the rabid reporters, and I couldn't believe how crazy they were being. But as soon as they got in our way, the hand that was on my shoulder was sweeping the reporters and the cameras away, giving us a clear path. I allowed myself a quick, sneaky look at him as he swatted them away like they were useless flies.

Despite my best efforts, my heart caught in my throat. He was so protective, it just made my stomach start doing backflips. But the rational voice in my head scolded me as I continued to guiltily watch him fend off the press. _He's not protecting you,_ it hissed._ He's protecting his investigation. Get over yourself._

I shook all thoughts away as I literally dove headfirst into the squad car, and after the door was slammed, it was eerily quiet. I could still hear the noises of the press, but it was now muted by the bulletproof door. I swore internally as I realized Don would be the one to drive me to the station.

Instead of just shutting up and riding on the plastic, bench-like seat in silence like a smart criminal would've, as soon as he sat down, I immediately jumped into 20 Questions. "Why are there so many members of the press at this crime scene?" I asked, using more words to convey my question than I normally would have. I figured a foreigner might do something similar.

Don was silent for a beat before answering. "There are always reporters at crime scenes." he answered evasively.

"But not this many."

"Do you mind me asking how you know that?"

I bit my lip, trying to think of a quick response. "Where I grew up you get to know things."

He was silent for a few seconds before answering, perhaps contemplating my answer. "The girl who was killed was kidnapped, and the whole story was kind of blown out of proportion by the media."

I paused, taking in his words. _The girl. _My breath caught a little. She must've been young. What kind of roving lunatic could take the life of a child before she even got a chance to live it? "How old?" I managed to whisper, and despite its near inaudibility, I knew he heard.

"Thirteen."

I was silent after that, just digesting his words. I leaned my head back, staring at the blank ceiling of the squad car. I let my eyes gently close as I thought. I was puzzled. Don usually never talks to the scumbags in the backseat of the cruiser, but he practically had a conversation with me. Could it be that he recognized me? That nearly made my eyes fly open, but common sense told me that that wouldn't be true. He would've acted on it by now if it were true. I kept telling myself that it wasn't, but secretly, I rabidly hoped it'd be true.

My mind that was stuck on this undercover mission churned out reasons why he couldn't recognize me, but my heart was fighting just as hard.

_He thinks you're dead... But things happen._

_He would've called you out on it earlier... He could've been waiting for you two to be alone._

_You're his prime suspect, so he's not looking for any similarities... Well, who says he's not?_

I tried to let my mind go blank, seeing as how it was pretty concerning if I'm hearing voices in my head.

I tried my best to ignore my debating heart and brain,and tried to think if I'd seen anything in the newspapers about this Melissa Danning. After scanning my internal files several times over, it snapped into place. If I'd been a cartoon character, the lightbulb would've flashed over my head at the sudden insight. Melissa was a middle school student who'd been abducted walking home from school. It was assumed that her kidnapping was a part of some Satanic ritual that had been going on. I had assumed that it was basically the media tying together random events to paint a macabre picture that everyone would want to read about, which would mean more money for them.

I recalled seeing some commissioner of some important office within the law enforcement agency assuring the public that no such dealings were going on in our perfect little town, but of course, they just jumped on that, and started spinning stories of conspiracy and coverup. Which makes no sense because Satan worshippers were not on my Top Ten list of Things Wrong with New York City.

"The media sucks, doesn't it?" I murmured softly. I felt like slapping myself for using a common American slang term that I had no idea if Russian immigrants even used.

Don didn't seem to notice as he agreed in the same monotone. "Yeah. It does."

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . **

After the confounding ride in the squad car, I now sat in the interrogation room I knew so well. I kept my eyes downcast. I was now alone, but I knew that Don, Mac, and Stella were probably behind that damn one-way mirror, watching me.

_Behind the Mirror..._

"There's just something about this girl..." Don said trailing off. Part of him was still stuck on their bizarre conversation in the squad car.

"You got that right. She was carrying a couple kilos of coke and seven unconcealed weapons that, so far, she hasn't been able to provide a single permit for. Everything about her screams 'I be in a gang'." Stella said, putting air quotes around the last five words.

"Not that," Don said pausing for a beat, "It feels like I know her from somewhere..." His heart was wrenched every time he looked at her face, and all of the features that were so alike Jess's tore at his heart. Aside from the dark blue- almost black- eyes and short sandy blonde hair, they could've been twins.

"She does look a lot like Jess," Mac said, almost as though he read Don's mind. At the same time, their eyes traveled to the mysterious woman sitting in the interrogation room.

_In the Interrogation Room..._

Don finally entered the room, a folder in hand, sitting across from me. That folder no doubt contained my fake file and crime scene photos that he intended to show me. His eyes scrutinized me, but said nothing. We must've sat that way for at least five minutes. My eyes kept flicking towards the door, waiting for someone from the FBI to bust in and say that this was all a mistake. But they didn't. It was just Don and me. Finally, he broke the silence. "What's your name?"

"Sarah. Sarah Barnes."

"Doesn't sound very Russian. What's with the accent?" His tone wasn't accusing, merely curious. He was going with the good cop angle. Interesting. Usually he preferred the intimidating no-nonsense investigator.

"I was born in New Ulm, Minnesota. My family moved to Moscow when I was 1 year old. I just moved back here 3 years ago." I recited. It was basic stuff on my Witness protection identity.

After a quick look at the folder, he glanced back at me. "Why were you in the warehouse district of Manhattan today and 7:21 AM? Pretty early for some people." he asked. I could tell they wanted me for this murder. I raised a hand to my cheek, which was covered in dried blood. I wasn't sure what to say. If I said I was making a delivery, they could lock me up before anyone from the FBI got word I was in here, if I lied, Don could easily turn it against me.

"I'm not answering any more of your questions until my lawyer arrives." Usually clamming up and crying 'lawyer' was a good way to get anyone to stop asking questions.

"I'm not blaming you for anything, Sarah. I'm just asking a simple question."

"Which I'm not going to answer until my lawyer gets here," I snapped, and feeling a little bad afterwards for being so pissy.

"Please, Sarah," Don asked, his voice getting softer, "She was so young. We need your help to find who did this."

"I'm sorry about the girl, but I didn't do it, nor did I see anyone until I saw the police. I was just walking along, minding my own business when you guys came and tackled me." I said, finally raising my downturned eyes -which had previously been looking at the table- and sending a seething a glare as I could possibly manage. I hoped that my midnight blue eyes conveyed enough hatred. Fake hatred, but hatred none-the-less. I felt kind of bipolar, especially after our nice-ish conversation in the squad car.

If Don noticed, he didn't show it as he held my glare, and before he could see any familiarity, I looked down again. "Well, keep in mind that you were in possession of several weapons, which you have no permits for, and enough cocaine to make quite a bit of money."

"I'm not saying anyth-" I was cut off by the door bursting open, and Special Agent Reed came to my rescue, wielding an FBI badge that had priority over the NYPD. "This interview is over, Detective Flack."

I stood, and trying to act like a scared little girl, more-or-less hid behind Special Agent Reed. "I'm sorry?" Don asked, his voice aggressive.

"This. Interview. Is. Over." He said slowly. "You are interfering with a special-ops undercover mission. Miss Barnes here is one of our people on the inside with the Russian gang. So give her back her guns, and let her go."

Don looked shell shocked, but still determined. "Do you have a file for this mission?"

Agent Reed handed him a manila folder that looked identical to the one that was sitting on the interrogation table. I tensed, and realized that my name, my _real_ name, may be written in that file. I prayed to whoever was listening that that would not be the case.

I'm, uh, sorry for, er, inconveniencing you, Sarah." he managed to stutter. It must not have been, seeing as how he didn't react. I could tell his reaction was not from finding out that his girlfriend who had supposedly died a half a year ago was actually alive

"Easy for you to say. I'm the one who's going to have to explain this," I said, touching my blood-crusted cheek. My eyes were still cast downward, hiding any chance that he may recognize something in me. Which I knew he eventually would if I kept staring at him.

Turning on my heel, which were still bare thanks to my throw at Don, I headed out the door.

Special Agent Reed and I learned that all of my weapons and coke were being held at the crime lab. _The_ crime lab. Shit.

**_. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ._**

We walked through the painfully familiar doors, and I led the way through the crowded lobby area, knowing exactly where to go. Lindsay would probably be the one with my guns in the Ballistics lab. And they'd keep the cocaine in the vault. We boarded the elevator, and thankfully, it was just us.

"How'd you get caught?" he said as soon as the door closed. His yellowy eyes flashed with something that was not qte close to anger, but was definitely walking the line.

"I had a delivery to make in lower Manhattan. Shay usually checks the GPS in our cars to see where we've been, so I figured I'd drive down there, walk around for awhile, and go back. It's hard to get some peace and quiet, you know? So I'm walking along, bam, there's a crime scene. Don sees me, thinks I may have seen something, comes up to me, I turn away, he sees all of my weapons, him and his partner chase me down, and here I am." I left out a lot of detail on purpose. If I had really described anything, I probably would've broken down in tears. I'm not much of a cryer, but not seeing Don or being able to talk to him had been a struggle, and seeing him, and talking to him as someone else just added salt to the wounds.

"So you didn't intentionally contact him?"

"Oh, no. Of course not!" I exclaimed. I tried to sound incredulous, but I actually wanted nothing more. I'd die for a chance to talk to him as Jess again.

"Good. If your resolve isn't there, then we'd have to pull you out of the field."

The elevator pinged. We were on the floor we needed. A part of me that I kept buried wished that I had intentionally contacted Don. I could be done with this whole mess with the gang. I could be done with faking cocaine deliveries. I could be done with the skin-crawling sensation when Shay looked at me. I could be back in the arms of the man I really loved. Taking a deep breath, and gathering up my small shards of courage, I stepped out of the elevator, heading in the direction of Ballistics. Just as I had feared, Lindsay was there, my seven firearms close by.

I immediately noticed her slightly-bulging stomach. She was pregnant again. I felt like crying. I had missed so much. You never know, I could be done with this mission in time to be there when this kid was born. I wanted to smile. Lucy was going to be a big sister. Most definitely something I did not want to miss. I noticed all of the things I remembered about my friend: her short hair, a bit longer now, and worn in waves. Her kind, brown eyes. That thoughtful look she got when she was trying to figure something out. I stopped myself before I actually broke out in tears.

Special Agent Reed gave her the runaround, and how we needed the weapons back. Plus the cocaine if I wanted to stay square with Shay. She handed my weapons over, and did not stop looking at me. Her eyes studied me critically. If I looked at her square, she'd probably see that I was Jessica Angell and not Sarah Barnes. So, after replacing all of my guns in their holsters, we set off for the vault. I literally had to gallop out of the Ballistics lab. I couldn't stand being here any more if I was going to keep a straight face. Mac was the only one in the department with the card key to open it, the right retina for the retinal scan, and the pass code.

We stood before the massive vault in no time, it's huge metal door still looking daunting. Mac was waiting there for us. Apparently, he'd already retrieved my cocaine, and had it in his gloved hands.

"Take care of yourself, Miss Barnes." Mac said as I replaced the cocaine in my jacket pockets.

"Always am," I said, still faking my brilliant Russian accent.

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed. Please review! 5 RTB reviews til next chapter. :) By the way, i know lindsay said after lucy was born that she never wanted to do that again, but hey, things happen, so just use your imaginations, kiddos. Love you all- SB**


	5. The Storm

**A/N: Thank you to my readers. Love you all. Just so you know, I changed the previous chapter. i used to have lindsay pregnant w/ lucy when jess saw her, but it bugged me a lot after I published it, because i'm slightly OCD like that, so I changed it to her having another kid. plus, i like the thought of D/L having another baby :) So yeah. Thankies! SB**

I arrived back at the main warehouse where most of the drugs were kept. The cold, dank concrete of the building worsened my already low mood. Walking in the steel door, I noticed that Shay was waiting for me there, as always. He sat slouching on one of the wooden crates where the coke was held. "Hey, babe. What's goin' on?" His carefree look changed when he saw my bloody cheek. "Sweetheart, what the fuck happened to your sexy face?"

"Don't call me sweetheart, Shay. Customer down in Manhattan didn't have money, tried to put my face in the cement. Here's your crap," I said, finally able to drop my Russian accent. Ripping the cocaine from my pockets, I threw it in Shay's face. It fell to the concrete floor with a soft thud. I began to turn away, wanting to get out of the uncomfortable warehouse.

"Babe, c'mon. I'll go put a bullet in the guy who fucked up your face. Just say the word, and I'll do it," he said earnestly, trying to get me to stay a little while longer.

I don't really know how I ended up there, but something inside me snapped. Emotional stress or something. But suddenly, I felt like that volcano I built for a science fair when I was eight. Put too much baking soda in it, as I did, and all of your fake lava will blow right off the table. Danny added baking soda. Lindsay added baking soda. Mac added baking soda... Don added the most. Shay's last few grains just made everything crumble down. My emotions already had had enough stress put on them today, and before I knew what I was doing, I was in Shay's face, screaming. "_Stop it!" _I screamed. Our faces were literally inches apart. Shay seemed both stunned by both our proximity and my outburst. "I _do not_ have feelings for you! I never will!" After my short screaming outburst, I lowered my voice, but not by much. "I hate you. I hate the way you look at me. I hate the way you try to be caring. Hell, the only way you can even try to be caring is to offer to kill someone for me. You don't know the first thing about caring for someone, or loving someone or even making someone happy. You know that most girls don't like it when guys blatantly check them out? Maybe your prostitutes don't mind, but _I _mind." I took a breath, trying to recover from my rant. "I'm done with this," I said finally, turning away. My still-naked feet slapped softly on the pavement, as I'd failed to recover my heels after my wild throw at... him. A small tear trickled down my cheek.

It was enough that I'd had to deal with Don today. When I was a teenager, I'd sworn to myself I'd never be 'one of those girls' who'd pretty much kill themselves and others for boys. I'd turned into that girl. But what Don and I shared wasn't some stupid, petty crush on a pimple-faced, pubescent 15 year old who sat next to me in biology. Something so much deeper rooted me into his soul. Rooted him to mine. You couldn't take the roots out without destroying the whole host to those roots. And it would be impossible to rip away all the roots. A part of him was always with me, and however cliche some may see that to be, it was true. Everything we did together was true. From the heart. I'd never known the meaning of 'making love' until I'd met Don Flack. We didn't just have sex just because we wanted the rush of adrenaline or endorphins, or the searing, white-hot pleasure it provided. It was something more. More tears fell from my face, sliding down onto my neck in clear, salty rivulets.

It's hard to remember what happened next. One second I was totally alone with my wistfulness for Don, my self-pity at my own situation, and disgust for Shay, and then he was on me. Shay had run up behind me, grasping me around my waist and dragging me to the floor. He was a gang leader. He was strong. He probably lifted weights and maybe even did steroids, but who needs muscle when you've got a gun? A gun that could've potentially taken my life all those months ago. A half a year had seemed like an eternity without Don at my side.

But Shay's lips on mine quickly brought me back to reality. He had me pinned. His legs draped over mine in a suffocating blanket, and his torso pressed against mine, nearly cutting off airflow to my lungs. I gasped for air, but his plundering lips wouldn't let up. I tried to shove his face away, only to discover his huge, menacing hands wrapped around my frail-looking arms. (Hell, anything would look frail next to him). My body squirmed in earnest, trying to get him off of me. But one of hands just wrapped into my off-blonde hair, which was somewhat regaining its natural pallor, pushing me closer to his hungered kisses.

His tongue pushed its way into my mouth, and I tried to scream at the sudden intrusion. Wrapping one large hand around my wrists, he proceeded to take off my clothing.

_He is going to rape you,_ my mind blatantly told me. _Either accept it or fight._ I was never one to lay down and give up. I had been called a 'stubborn bitch' more than I care to say. In third grade, I'd beat up Tommy Asher for putting a booger in my hair. It definitely took him down a few pegs, and none of the boys messed with me ever again.

This wasn't just a booger in my hair, this time. This could be a life and death matter. I'd seen and talked to a lot of women who'd been raped. They just seemed out of body-like they were still experiencing the event in their head, over and over and over and over again. Watching their rapist invade their body, taking them in a way that was just animal. Hell, most animals didn't just have sex because they felt like dominating someone. Humans could be worse than animals. A lion could rip apart a defenseless baby giraffe, a pack of wolves could devour a moose while it was still alive, but nothing could match the cruelty of a human being.

He forced his tongue deeper into my mouth, and I bit down as hard as I could, tasting the unmistakable metallic tang of blood. I ground my teeth together trying to injure him in the only way I could. "_Fuck!_" Shay cussed, and ripped his face away from mine. I saw droplets of blood oozing from his lips.

"Stupid, fucking bitch!" I cussed at me, then he raised his arm and punched me across my face. Hard. Pain shattered through my skull as his fist connected with the hard bone of my temple. I must've blacked out for a few seconds, because when the next thing I knew, he'd continued his assault to my neck, and he began to push the silky green shirt I wore over my stomach, revealing the taut skin there. My bandage and stitches were gone, I mean, it'd been a year, but I still had a visible scar on my torso.

But now, my mouth was free, and I wasn't going to sit around waiting for someone to come and help me. I screamed. It was loud, long, and blood-curdling at the sound of it. It made my head pulse angrily, and black dots buzzed around my vision, but I kept screaming. Someone had to hear it, if not in the immediate area, someone nearby. "_Help me!"_ I screamed again. Shay must've realized how loud I was being, because he stopped shoving away my shirt. He rose slightly from my body, but still had me pinned under his weight. Reaching over to one of the crates, he found a roll of duct tape. I realized what he was going to do, and using my lungs at the full capacity, I let out a long howl of desperation. But my calls for help were soon ended as he used one hand and his teeth to rip a long strip of the tape and placed it squarely over my mouth.

He must've had a revelation about the tape, because quicker than I could keep up with, he duct taped my hands together, and dragged me over to a support beam, taping my hands to that as well. He now had a hand free, and ripped the thin material of my shirt away from my body. I immediately developed goosebumps at the cold air, the cold concrete floor and fear of my situation. His hands traveled to my breasts, and I began to sobs silently. He was going to rape me. No one had heard my desperate cries for help.

Without warning, Shay was suddenly gone. He'd been tackled off of me by someone who'd heard my pleas for help. I raised my head from my prone position on the floor to see who my savior was.

Andy.

He'd been a block or so away when he'd heard my scream. He'd run here, burst through the door, and tackled Shay with football-like prowess. Andy drew one of his weapons and stood over Shay, pointing the gun squarely in Shay's face. Like all sane people, Shay froze under the barrel, raising his hands from his crumpled position on the floor.

"Hey, Luke, get that thing the hell away from me."

"You leave my sister alone, do you hear me?" Andy growled in a voice that scared even me, and he wasn't even talking to me.

The Witness Protection and FBI had designed our fake identities with Andy being my older brother, which, in this situation, was a saving grace. It would be weird if some random guy from the gang was so protective over me.

I watched Shay shrink away from the barrel of the gun some more, kind of scooting along the floor, and kept ordering Andy to put his gun down.

He was quickly silenced when Andy whipped the gun across Shay's face. Shay grunted loudly with the impact, and his face was slammed into the cold cement beneath him. A small pool of blood collected as Shay lay there, almost motionless. "Leave. Her. Alone." Andy repeated slowly, as though he was talking to a five year old who'd just colored all over a wall. His tone of voice sounded out of place and almost caring.

"Okay! Fine, I'll leave her the fuck alone. Just let me go!" he said in exasperation. Shay slowly stood, still underneath the watchful eye of Andy, spitting blood out of his mouth.

Things went quickly then. Shay ran off, probably to his prostitutes to 'mend his wounds'. Andy cut the tape away from my hands with a Swiss Army knife he carried with him everywhere, even since we'd first met. My shirt was destroyed, the delicate fabric hung in ribbons. Quickly removing his sports coat he draped it over me, murmuring nothings of comfort in my ear. I shivered violently, my breath coming out in quick gasps and my body seized. _You're in shock,_ my brain informed. It was sure doing a lot of chattering lately.

Cradling me in his arms in a brother-like way, he somehow got me to my crappy apartment. I had vague impressions of getting into and out of a car, but I was pretty out of things. Once we were inside however, I lost the needy child part of me and Jess took over again. "Jesus, put me down, Eyore." I said, trying to lighten the mood with his old nickname. It failed pretty miserably, as I was still quaking with the shock-induced cold, my voice wobbling as I struggled to take a deep breath. He just looked at me solemnly. He placed me on the couch and walked purposefully into my kitchen. "Where do you keep your plastic bags?" he asked in the tight controlled voice I knew so well echoing from the kitchen.

"Second drawer to the right of the fridge." I answered. I heard the crinkle of plastic, the smash of an ice tray, and soon he was back with an ice pack in his hand, and a blanket that he found from who knows where. He placed the ice pack against my temple, and tossed the blanket to me, which I caught despite having limited motor control over my arms. I immediately lay down and drpaed the blanket over me, and I felt a tiny bit of relief from the freezing cold possessing my body.

"Hold it there for about twenty minutes. We have to be careful about a concussion, because you might slip into a coma." he said quietly, sitting down next to me. "I'll stay with you tonight. You'll need to be woken every half hour or so."

I just lay motionless on the couch listening to his words, not really taking them in. Sleeping was starting to sound like a very good idea. "Well, Sunny, I appreciate your concern, but really, I'm fine. My head doesn't even hurt any more," I said, trying to stand. As soon as I was standing without the support of the couch, black dots exploded for my eyes, and pain ripped through my aching head. I gasped and lowered myself back to the couch. My head still pulsated in pain. His sports coat was still draped over my shoulders, doing a half-assed job over covering up my body, so I immediately reached for my blanket and covered myself once again, but remaining sitting.

Andy laughed. For the first time since I'd met him, he honest-to-God laughed. Sure, it was a nervous chuckle, but a laugh none-the-less. "Hardly. He definately put some oomph behind that one. What about your neck? Might've been hard enough to give you some whiplash."

I rolled my neck from side to side, testing for any strange twinges or tweaks. I felt none, although my head did scream at me when I moved it. I gritted my teeth when I felt the painful pulsing to the time of my heartbeat in my head, but managed to say no to Andy without hissing in pain. "But honestly, Andy, you don't need to stay. A couple of Tylenol and my bed is all I really need right now. Go home." I tried to sound as nonnegotiable as possible, but my voice came out slightly wobbly.

He just smiled in that way that he always does, nostalgic and slightly irate. "Jessica, what am I going to do with you?"

I twisted up my face to look like a grimace. "Jessica is what my teachers called me when I was in trouble. Just... Jess, okay? Or Angell."

Andy looked thoughtful for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of letting go his formal greetings. "Okay... _Jess."_ The way he said it was as though he was tasting vinegar.

I laughed, and although my head made a lot of protest, I didn't mind. "Jesus, Sunny, don't make it sound so painful."

We were silent for a little while, me shifting so I was laying down in a reclining position that was comfortable to my apparently damaged head on the couch, and Andy retreated the beat up purple Lazy Boy chair that I'd scored at a garage sale for five bucks a couple weeks ago. (Sure it didn't really recline any more and smelled a lot like Cheetos, but it was a good deal.)

As always, I thought about about Don, but a thought suddenly popped into my head. "Tell me about your wife." I suddenly blurted.

Andy looked startled. He probably thought I'd fallen asleep. Or into a coma. He was silent for a full minute before he spoke. Several times I thought about repeating my question, but when I looked into his eyes I saw the hurt, anguish, and reluctance. I let him stew. Eventually, he found his voice. "Why do you want to talk about her?" He wasn't accusing, just desperate for me to say 'Forget it,' but like I said, I was never one to give up easily.

I sat up, dragging my blanket and grtting my teeth when my head started to complain. "I'm not really sure, I guess. But you're my friend, and friends talk it out. I can see you're pissed about losing her. It helps to talk." I said gently. And I meant it. When I'd lost my dog Tank when I was 12 to cancer I'd been devastated. My parents bought him before I was even conceived. A little girl was selling Saint Bernard puppies for two dollars where my parents went on their honeymoon. He'd immediately plowed over a small child after they bought him, and after apologizing profusely to the parents of the poor kid, they named him Tank. I talked to my dad, my friends, and everyone who'd listen about Tank, and I eventually got past it. "It's better to remember them than to dwell on them," I said to Andy, feeling very proud of myself to have thought of something so wise and reasonable sounding on the spot.

That philosophic answer seemed to crack his shell. I heard him mutter something about pissed not being the right word to describe how he felt under his breath before he began. "We met in college," he said quietly. "I was at a party, and I'd sworn off drinking because my Dad's an alcoholic, so everyone just thought I was a loser. But she didn't. She was beautiful, so guys were literally kissing the ground she walked on so they could get in her pants. She was the kind of girl who carried a Swiss Army knife in her purse and a gun in her coat pocket wherever she went, but they were falling over each other to get her." He pulled the knife he carried out of his back pocket, running it between his fingers, examining it thoughtfully.

I almost interrupted to make a comment about the Swiss Army knife, but suddenly, he was too caught up in his story to really notice me much. "She came up to me, after some other blonde bimbo had whipped off her shirt and started pole dancing on some support pillar and got the attention of her male followers." he chuckled at the memory. "I'll never forget what she said to me, 'Does it only take a pair of boobs to get their attention?' She then handed me a glass of apple juice. I thought it was beer and just about jumped out of my skin. She saw my expression and explained that it was apple juice, but it looked exactly like beer, and the 'drunken idiots who are currently watching the girl dry hump that fucking pole over there will never notice the difference.'" He used air quotes when he was explaining what his late wife said.

I laughed warmly, realizing that I would've really liked this lady. "She had the worst censorship with her words of anyone I'd ever met. She managed to squeeze more swears into one sentence than I could in an entire paragraph. I was never comfortable with girls much. I had one steady girlfriend throughout high school, and we parted ways because we went to different colleges, so I'd never really had to worry about girls that much. But we left the party, and I felt like I was talking to my best friend and we'd known each other forever. She took my hand and led me over to a garden. We sat down in some bushes and just talked. Just talked and talked and talked until the sun came up. I fell asleep in my classes, but I didn't care. I was totally head over heels for her."

Obviously skipping over some X-rated material and other semantics, he continued. "We got married a few months after graduation. We were both 22. I was an EMT and she was an FBI agent. We were married for a few years when we started wanting a kid. I knew she'd make an excellent mother, despite her 'flaws'," he said, using the air quotes again. "That's what my mom always said. 'That wife of yours has so many flaws. She'll never be a good mother.' But I knew she was wrong." He skipped past more awkward stuff, "Four years ago, we were thirty, and we had thus far be unable to conceive, so we saw a couple doctors and it finally happened. She was pregnant. She did a dance and everything," he said laughing heartily. He actually gave a real laugh. I wanted to cry. His wife had given him so much joy, and now she was gone. _Perhaps that's why he's the stoic guy he is today... _I thought randomly.

"Anyway, eight months in, she was running errands and the bank across the street got robbed." His whole facial expression changed. I could tell I was not going to like what happened next. His whole joyful demeanor changed as he remembered his wife's final minutes. "Like I said, Sabrina was headstrong. She acted before she got around to thinking. Sometimes she didn't think at all, she just went and did what had to be done if someone was in trouble. This was one of those times that she never got around to thinking. She had cop instincts and act as a cop she did. She carried a small .22 in her purse and took it out and charged in... The police said that she took out seven of the eight thieves before they even realized what hit them." I realized that there were tears in his eyes, but they weren't falling. Yet. "But it only takes one. She was shot in the head and... the medical examiner said she died instantly... Our baby... died a little while later. She basically suffocated inside of my wife." Andy wasn't holding back the tears now. I felt a few slip down my cheeks. I wanted to go hold his hand or pat his shoulder, or offer some words of comfort, but I was frozen, and I had no good advice here.

A little while later, he got ahold of himself, which I found miraculous. If I had been in his position, I would've been drowning in self pity. "The reason those robbers were there... I was later told that it was a police department error. I couldn't help but think that maybe if the police had done their jobs, kept the city safe like they say they do, maybe I'd still have my wife with me today, and maybe I'd have a four year old daughter..."

All conversation dropped off after that. I was still absorbing what he'd told me. It explains a lot actually... Why he was a cop. The Swiss Army knife. The protectiveness. The serious attitude. I wiped the few tears off my face. "I... here's your coat." I said, standing and handing the coat to him. My head didn't hurt as much, now, so the black dots gave me a break as I journeyed to my kitchen, still in my lovely tattered clothes. I swallowed a few Tylenol with some water, and ventured back out after changing into my pajamas. I sat myself back on the couch and laid the blanket over my lap, leaning into the poofy cushions of the back rest.

I was surprised when Andy spoke again. "What about you?"

I sat up and answered as more of a surprise than an actually legitimate answer. "What?"

"What was your life like before the FBI reined you in?"

Now thinking about it, I had nothing on Andy's pain. His wife and child died. Don was still alive and well, and, I think, happy. "I don't really want to say that my story's not as good as yours, but it's not."

He shrugged nonchlantly as though we were discussing what fruits were in season or the toothpaste industry. "So?"

I took a deep breath. I hadn't actually said this to anyone, really, when I think about it. I'd never really reported a memoir of our relationship. Almost everyone at the precint had their own theories, but only a few people actually knew about our relationship. "I was in love, had a kick-ass job, and then got shot." I said, speaking as quickly as possible. And I couldn't believe how lame I sounded.

He gave another laugh, more carefree than I'd ever heard. "Come on. I practically gave you a whole novel."

I took a deep breath. It was going to be tough, but I had to get it off my chest. "I met him through work. Don Flack. He's so funny and caring and brave and wonderful, not to mention hugely attractive. We started dating, and I was just..." I tried to come up with the words to describe it. 'In love' just didn't seem to cover what I felt for him. Andy's nod showed that he understood. I went into a few intricacies, going to Yankees games, that one time at a cocktail party where we got in trouble for doing the nasty in a closet, and just having fun in general when I was with him. Then I got to the hard part.

"I agreed to meet him later when I was at Tillery's Diner. Heard of it?" I purposely left out the part about the black negligee. A sure-fire awkward moment. Andy nodded before I continued.

"Anyway, I was there on protecton duty for a guy who was supposed to testify in court, and there was some stupid, complicated reason for them driving the truck into the diner, but I don't want to get into it. I think they did it to set the guy free but..." I trailed off and shrugged. "I didn't really know what was going on. It was all calm and peaceful, and all of a sudden there was an eighteen wheeler crashing through the front window. I was shot by someone inside the truck. I can't even believe I survived." I paused, lifting up the blanket and pushing aside what was left of my shirt to reveal the light purple and white scar on my stomach. I was actually surprised it hadn't been worse. I'd seen dozens of scars that were angry, purple lines that were immediately noticeable. I could tell that Andy wanted to ask questions, but kept silent. "It was a Desert Eagle. I recognized it because I've seen a lot of guns in my day, and I would've bet any money that they were using armor-piercing rounds." I paused again. A Desert Eagle. Who the hell survives a shot from a Desert Eagle? No one does.

"I was talking to an older lifer back at the Academy when we were learning about different guns. I asked him after class what happens to people when they get hit by a Desert Eagle. He just smiled sadly and said 'We either die or our limbs get blown clean off.'" I paused again. I was stirring up a lot of memories. I'd been one of the few women at the Police Academy in Montreal, and I was the youngest, fresh out of high school at nineteen. I got a lot of attention from guys. That's where the line involving an angel falling from heaven started. They also called me Princess and many other names that clearly stated their X-rated intentions towards me. There was one guy, who was in his twenties who I only remember as Dunwood. So Dunwood is making more sexual comments than usual that day, and it was getting on my nerves. I'd left a good couple bruises and left his shoulder sore for a week. No one called me Princess or used angel lines on me anymore.

I hadn't realized how caught up I was in memories, and quickly restarted my story again. "I emptied my gun, because honestly, what else was I supposed to do? After that, I remember falling over back wards and Don yelling over me, telling me to stay with him and yelling for an ambulance. Next thing I know, I'm at the hospital, and the FBI's telling me that I'm required to go on this mission because 'it's not often that someone recovers from an injury like this and is the perfect opportunity to create a fake identity.' Not often. That's got to be the understatement of the century." I said, using their exact words. I hadn't realized this, but one tear slipped down my cheek as I recounted my 'final moments'.

"After the FBI guys left, the doctors came in and kept telling me how lucky I was to be alive. They kept staring in disbelief at my file, with their mouths hanging open and everything... If the bullet had," I took a deep breath, "If the bullet had been three millimeters up I probably wouldn't have survived." I recalled what the doctors had told me. The bullet could've been higher. It could've severed my spinal cord. It could've ricocheted into my chest cavity. It could've torn my lungs to shreds. It could've ripped my heart in half. But no. Three millimeters down is where it ended up. It's velocity was slowed by my organs, and it never touched my spine. Sure, it severed a few critical arteries, but..."It was really like me to downplay severed arteries. I still couldn't get over how damn lucky I was to be here with a functioning set of lungs and a beating heart.

"Anyway, to make a long story short, I got arrested today. By Don. And by some miracle, he didn't recognize me." I said, saying those last words and feeling a weight lifted off my shoulders. I hadn't realized how good it felt to get that out.

"It must be worse knowing that he's still out there, alive and breathing, and you can't be with him."

"I don't know about that. At least if he's alive, then he can move on and be happy. That's all I really want."

And with that I ditched my blanket on the couch, and walked purposefully to my room, my head still pounding a bit. I shut my door, and gingerly laid down. Sudden movements still hurt a bit. I was drained- emotionally and physically. Thankfully, exhaustion overcame my thoughts and I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillows. A second before I was out, I hoped it wouldn't be one of those nights where nightmares would consume my sleep. I had to wish on my very, very few lucky stars.

**Wow. What a chapter. I hope I kind of.. diversified Andy's character some more. Am I the only one who really doesn't like Shay? No? Good. Cause he is a bad nut, that's for sure (that's what my grandma would say. Hi grandma!) And I added some other stuff with the doctors that I cut out of the first chapter -SB**

**PS: 5 RTB reviews to next chapter.**


	6. Flashback

**Thank you to my faithful readers. I hope you enjoy the next chapter of Serena's fantasmical literary adventure :D -SB**

I awoke to the sun blazing through my window, giving promises- that probably wouldn't be fulfilled- that things would get better. The sun did make me feel a little cheerier, though, despite it being muted by the dirt clinging to the glass. Yesterday had probably been the worst day of my whole existence- getting arrested by Don and Danny, having Shay try and fail to rape me, hearing the story of Andy's wife that made me want to cry even thinking about it, and finally spilling all of my guts about me and Don.

I felt a little better having slept, however sporadically. Andy, despite my (pathetic) arguments, he stayed and dutifully woke me up at the prescribed intervals. After giving him a few cuss words and begging for sleep, he'd leave and I'd fall back into the fatigue-induced slumber.

But my nightmares last night hadn't been about the shooting. They'd been about Shay. His hands on me. His lips. I'd awoken every time to Andy shaking me, asking if I was okay. Nope. Definitely not. I'd brushed it off, giving some lame excuse about flaming clowns or whatever scary dreams were supposed to be like. I could tell that he didn't buy it, but Andy knew I needed a rest more than a lecture.

I sat up and stretched, hearing a few pops and cracks as I did so. I shook my head around a little, testing the pain. It was minimal, thankfully, and when I stood, there was not black dots or ringing in my ears, which was an improvement over last night. I stumbled into the bathroom, still a little woozy from sleep. "_Shit," _I cursed when I saw my reflection in the smudgy mirror. A large purple bruise was forming around my right temple, centering mainly on the right side of the bony ridge of my eye socket. Still cussing under my breath, I examined the deep purple bruise, even black in some parts. No concealer or powder in the world was good enough to cover this. Not to mention the nasty, crusted wound on the opposite cheek. "Damn," I hissed, "this is going to be one hell of a shiner."

I tried and failed to put makeup over the black eye, so after splashing my face with cool water, and making sure all of the caked concealer was gone from my face, I decided to go organic and just leave it in the open air. Besides, the water felt good on the still healing wound on my face.

I wandered out to the kitchen, but not before I passed the doorway to my living room. Andy was passed out asleep on my couch. He had a look of eerie contentment on his face. The reason it was eerie was because I'd never really seen him so... at peace. Normally, when he was awake, his face was a canvas of emotions, which was now blank.

Sighing, I continued on to my kitchen, and after digging around in my refrigerator, I found a few eggs, some cheese, and some ham. I made some quick scrambled eggs for myself, something I'd had to do since I was a teenager. My dad was usually working, and my brothers out doing God knows what, so I was a pro at making scrambled eggs. No joke, you could taste them and think Julia Child herself was cooking for you. (I love to brag about my limited-to-eggs cooking skills.)

Plopping myself down in a chair with a steaming plate of eggs in front of me, I had a sudden flashback to a situation so similar to the one I was currently in...

_The sizzle of butter and egg was comforting in the silence as I waited for Don to wake up. He was always a heavy sleeper on these weekends, so I decided to make eggs for him. It wasn't that I was just being nice, which I was, but I was doing it to try to sidle up to a touchy subject. _

_The subject I was sidling up to was... well... my eye. We'd busted a small drug ring, maybe seven people. I was putting the cuffs on one of the biggest guys when he'd broken away, and socked me in the face, more specifically, the right eye. Of course, I'd socked him right back, and got the situation back under control, but I was more concerned at what Don would think._

_He was always concerned about my safety on the job. Besides, a lot of cops think women are just like fragile little glass figures and one prick can send them tumbling down in shards. Don didn't think this way, but he always had in him this protective nature. He was with me when we busted these thugs, so I just _knew _that he'd hold himself personally responsible for not keeping me safe. He'd been with me when I was cuffing the guy who punched me, but he'd left to help someone else for a few short seconds... Last night he'd tossed and turned for hours, one of the reasons he was sleeping late. I'd felt him doing so, and I pretended I was asleep to appease him and not make him mad at himself even more._

_A final flip of the eggs revealed that they were done, and I scooped two portions onto plates. I heard the tell-tale creak of the floor of the door to the kitchen and I knew Don was up. "I made eggs," I told him in as bright a voice as possible._

_He didn't say anything to me, but I heard his bare feet pad up behind me. Hooking his arms around my waist, he pressed his lips to my cheek. I could almost feel the tension surrounding him, like an electric buzz._

_I handed him a plate, which he took silently, and we crossed the room to the kitchen table. Looking into his eyes, I saw deep sorrow. I knew he was scared I'd be all pissed at him, which was stupid. "It wasn't your fault, you know." I told him, stating it as though it were plain as day. Which it pretty much was._

_"I know it's just that..." he trailed off, as a he raked a hand through his dark hair. He sighed, his eyes conveying pain. "What if that guy had a gun? What if he shot you? What if you _died, _Jess?"_

_I finally understood why he was so worked up about this. "He didn't have a gun, though, Don. I just have wicked good luck," I said, giving him a wry smile._

_I saw a hint of a smile tug at the edges of his mouth. He was about to argue some other point but I butted in, "Hey, don't start. We can come up with a lot of 'what if' scenarios and keep ourselves locked away for the rest of our lives because we're afraid something might happen. But honestly, can you see me sitting in a house, peeking out the curtains and having a panic attack every time a bird flies by?"_

_He chuckled softly, the image brightening his mood a little, "Definitely not." We ate in silence for a little while, then Don spoke up. "Since when did you become so philosophical and wise?"_

_I laughed. Usually 'philosophical' or 'wise' were not the words that came to mind when I described myself. "Since I became such a badass at making scrambled eggs, now eat," I commented, gesturing at his eggs._

_My comment made zero sense, but Don smiled full on for the first time that morning, and I had to remind myself to keep breathing. I mentally rolled my eyes at myself. _Obsessive much, Jess? _I thought. I stood, and paced over to Don's chair, kissing his smile full on, lowering myself into his lap and feeling his arms wrap around me._

_He kissed me back, and I decided I didn't want to be anywhere else, other than here, in his arms._

I snapped out of my momentary flashback. That had been one of my favorite times with Don. He was so protective, sometimes to a fault. But I didn't see it as a fault. I saw it as a wonderful trait. I loved Don for being Don. I closed my eyes, and steadied my breathing. If I went on thinking about him, I'd lose it. I'd probably abandon my undercover mission. My morals wouldn't allow that.

I shoveled my scrambled eggs into my mouth, ignoring their still steamy temperature. They scalded my tongue, I tried to focus on that instead of him.

I heard a low moan from the doorway, and I glanced over at the newly awoken Andy leaning against the wall, rubbing his eyes and stretching to his full height before relaxing again. "My knight in shining armor is here," I said with a wry smile.

He gave a small laugh. "Smells good."

I waved my hand in the general direction of the stove. "Help yourself. Plates are in the cupboard next to the stove."

After retrieving his breakfast, we sat in comfortable silence as we ate, the only sounds being the metal forks on the glass plates. I had hoped some conversation with Andy would provide a good distraction, but no such luck.

After eating, Andy was getting ready to leave. "Are you sure you'll be okay by yourself? I can stay if you want..." He was so tied to his duty of keeping me safe I had to practically shove him out the door.

"Eyore, I will be _fine._ Today is my day off anyway. No deliveries or anything, I'll probably just veg out here. Maybe take a catnap." I said, trying very hard to sound nonchalant. Andy was finally satisfied enough to leave after I'd curled up on the couch underneath a thick afghan blanket with some book I'd found on the shelf.

"If you need anything, call me."

I was starting to get a little annoyed. "Yep, got it. Bye now." I said curtly.

He finally left, shutting the door softly behind him. I finally bothered to look at the book. _The Alchemist. _Shrugging, I said aloud to myself, "I've got nothing better to do," I began reading. For some strange reason, I got really caught up in the story, which was strange, because I'd never really been into books, as a kid, or as an adult. But I was interrupted out of the enchanting story of Santiago by a petulant knock at the door.

I immediately went on high alert. It could be Shay, coming back for round two. I frantically looked around for one of my guns, relief shooting through me when I found all seven sitting on the coffee table. Taking my main one, a handheld automatic that looked a lot like the one I carried as Jessica Angell. I crept towards the door, my bare feet silent as I seemingly floated towards it. I reached the door and took a deep breath, preparing myself for anything.

Keeping two hands on my gun, I took a quick peek through the peep hole, and was shocked at what I saw.

**Who's at the door? XD Anyway, sorry about the awkward chapter. I am definitely not fond of this one... it just feels weirdish. please review though, because if you review, my writing will get better. I'll post a chapter when I get a few reviews? please? reviews are coming few and far between these days :'( is my writing getting suckier? -Serena**


	7. Ally

**Mahhvelous dahhhhlings. Another chapter is up! Thanks for the few reviews I got, but at least I know people are reading. Enjoy enjoy! -Serena**

It was a girl. A large part of my subconscious had hoped it was Don, but I tried my best not to let that get to me. She was young. Really young. Maybe sixteen or seventeen at the oldest. There was a look of unrest about her, and her eyes were very shifty as I gazed at her. She had long, wavy, bronze colored hair that fell to her mid back and shone like a new penny. Her blue eyes that were still wild, were a striking ice blue color. She was tall and slim, probably taller than myself. She wore relaxed fit jeans that looked well-used, a white tank top that clung to her near-perfect figure, and an unzipped blue hoodie that looked a size to big for her.

I threw open the door, and replaced two hands on my gun, pointing the gun as my cop instincts kicked in. As the door banged open, she nearly hit the ceiling she was so startled. She skittered a few steps away, and even after she stopped, she looked about ready to bolt. Her eyes were boring into the gun that was pointed in her direction. "Who are you?" I demanded. I felt pretty bad on the inside for being so unkind to a teenager who was obviously scared out of her wits, but I was more concerned with my own safety than her feelings, cruel as it sounds. Thinking rationally, I must've looked like quite a picture with the messed up face and the gun.

"A-Ar-Are you S-Sarah Barnes?" she managed to stutter, her eyes still locked on the gun.

"Depends on who's asking," I said, trying to copy my no-nonsense, demanding tone I'd used before.

She fumbled around in her pocket for something, and I heard a quick intake of breath before realizing it was myself. I automatically put my finger on the trigger. Not that I'd be happy about shooting a girl that was barely half my age, but survival instincts definitely had priority over morals.

Instead of a gun, the girl produced a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket, and handed it to me. Well, 'handed it to me' is really not what happened. She kind of tossed it in my general direction, before jerking her hand away, like I was a dog who'd bite. I managed to catch it before it floated to the ground. I glanced at it while keeping one hand on my gun, still pointed at her. It was written in Shay's sloppy scrawl.

_Sarah,_

_This is my 16 year old niece Amy. I'm not going to go into specifics, but she's going to become a coke mule. Show her the ropes. She'll be living with you until something more permanent can be figured out. Her stuff will come tomorrow. Don't tell her anything about what went on between us._

_-Shay_

I shakily lowered my gun. Sixteen. At that age I was playing softball and worrying about boys and dances. I wasn't about to become a coke mule for one of the deadliest gangs in the country.

"Shit, shit,_ shit,"_ I cussed out loud. How could I quote "teach" end quote this girl if I wasn't actually doing what Shay thought I was doing? Amy still looked a little scared, but now that the gun was down, she didn't look ready to run off. I tore my eyes away from the note. "Oh, I, uh, sorry. Come in," I said, gesturing with my gun into the door.

She walked in, her ice colored eyes taking everything in. After shutting the door with a soft _click,_ I did a realtor-spin move thing with my arms out, displaying the crappiness of my apartment. "So... this is my humble abode," I said with a slight chuckle, and walking over to the coffee table. I neatly deposited my gun in the pile with the others, the metal clanging together. Amy flinched away from the noise of the guns hitting the table. I noticed her eyes were still locked on the substantial arsenal I had piled on the table.

I re-plopped myself on my couch, setting _The Alchemist _on my knee, keeping the page that I'd just been at. I'd get back into it once Amy got settled in.

She stood in the middle of the room, her arms wrapped around her midsection as she gazed around. "Amy." I said, trying for a soothing tone. "You don't have to be scared of me."

She still looked dubious, and said nothing. I didn't blame her. I was, in fact, the freaky stranger with a very noticeable shiner and half of my face scraped off who held a gun on her when I opened the door.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. "Okay, um, what's your name?"

She looked at me like I was crazy, but her gaze soon returned to the guns on the table. "You already know my name."

"But I want you to tell me."

"Okay, I'm Amy."

"You know that's not what I meant."

She looked at the floor, shuffling her feet around. "My name is Amelia Joan Baron."

"See? Was that so hard?" I asked her, a smile playing across my face.

She gave me a small, tight-lipped smile in return, but I could see that she gave it only to appease me. She still saw me as the freaky stranger. I didn't blame her. I wouldn't trust me either if I was in her position.

I thought of questions I could ask her. "Uh, where were you born? What are your parents names? What do they do for a living?"

She sat down in my purple chair, but she didn't look any more relaxed than when I'd had a gun pointed in her face. "Albany. My mom was named Anya and my dad was named William. My mom was a science teacher and my father was a barber."

"Was?" I questioned.

"They were killed in a car accident a month ago," she said curtly.

Damn. A damaged teenager who was about to get involved in a world she definitely did not want to be involved with under the wing of a supposed star drug dealer and mule who was actually an undercover cop who did not want to be here either. What a great pair we'd make.

"I'm sorry. I know how you feel," I said, meaning it. I knew what it was like to lose a parent.

Suddenly, she was in my face, whispering in a sinister tone. Her eyes glowed in a strange way that made her icy blue eyes look fiery and her hands were on her hips. "Do you, Sarah? Really? Do you really know how it feels to lose both of your parents in one day? You head off to school one morning, and Mom says, 'Oh, Amy, less makeup, more clothes,' and I just blow her off and say, 'Yeah, whatever," I tell them good bye and I love you, and it turns out that that was the last conversation you ever had with them? You're chatting with your boyfriend in biology then you get called to the principal's office and you get to hear that your parents are now in body bags? Do you really know what that feels like, Sarah?" By the time she finished her rant, tears were streaming down her cheeks, and her body was quaking with sobs.

Not knowing what else to do, I stood and wrapped my arms around her, forgetting about the book on my knee. I pulled her back down onto the couch with me, and she curled up against my side, and just sobbed. It was strange in it's own way. I met her fifteen minutes ago, and I'd been convinced that she was going to try to kill me, and she was convinced that I'd kill her. Now I was comforting her sobs, stroking her hair, and murmuring nothings of comfort in her ear, trying to be the mother that she lost.

She'd finally quieted after a solid half hour of crying. My tank top that I'd worn to bed the night before was soaked through with her tears, but I didn't mind. She must've come to and realized what happened and she jumped away from me and stood up, retreating to her former position on the chair. "I-I'm sorry, Sarah," she said with one last sniffle. "I don't know what that was."

"It's fine. I know what it's like to lose a parent," I said, shrugging, and retrieving my book off the floor.

I glanced at her, and finally saw her rigid muscles ease, and I was glad to see her relax. Somewhat. "Does it get easier?" Amy asked in a small voice. I looked over at her, our eyes meeting. My brown eyes met her blues ones, and I saw a scared little girl, needing comfort.

"Yes," I told her honestly, "But you'll never be the same."

She seemed perplexed by my answer and her expression changed to one of thought. She turned away from me and stared into one of the walls, but I could see that her mind was spinning at the recent developments.

Me? I picked up my book, and began to read where I left off.

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

Later that night, after Amy had fallen into a peaceful slumber underneath the afghan on the couch, I sifted through the drawer that held my FBI issued cell phone that they gave me with the admonishment to use it 'in extreme emergencies only'. I was not quite sure if this counted, but I assumed that extreme emergencies were when A) I was about to get killed or B) my cover was about to get blown. Not quite sure where this one counted, but I figured I could sort that stuff out later. I clicked through the contacts on the phone and found Special Agent Reed's number.

The phone rang twice. "Reed," he answered in a brusque way I'd imagine he always did.

"Agent Reed? This is Jessica Angell. I have a bit of a... situation," I said, not sure how to describe my distrustful-then-crying-then-okay relationship with Amy.

"Define 'situation', Jessica." I gave him the runaround on Amy, the note from Shay, how she was supposed to stay at my my place. "Well, Jessica, I can see how you can't kick her out on the streets... and you're supposed to be training her to be a coke mule?"

"Yeah and I'm.. I'm not even sure how to physically swallow something like that," I said honestly.

I heard him sigh through the phone. "Gain her trust, Jessica. You're going to have to do some improv on why you can't teach her, because honestly I have no idea what to tell you. Just keep her safe until this assignment is over, okay? Then we can figure out custody and what not, which could get complicated, considering her parents are dead."

I let out a breath that I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I'd been afraid he was going to ask me to kick her out, which I don't think I would've done, even if he's ordered me to. "Thanks, Reed." I said, dropping his title, because, frankly I didn't have the energy for it right now.

"It's not a problem, Jessica," he paused for a heartbeat, "Just try not to blow your cover, okay? You need to figure out what side this girl is on before you do anything stupid."

"Got it. Gain her trust, don't blow cover." I took a deep breath and tried to reorder my thought processes. "Can you call Andy and tell him? I don't know when I'll be able to manage it..."

"Sure thing. Good bye, Jessica."

Then the line went dead.

I heard a voice from the doorway. "Well, what was _that_ conversation about?"

I spun around and saw Amy. She looked sleepy, and her hair was slightly disheveled, her clothes a little wrinkled. My stomach dropped, and my heart clenched. "Oh God, how much of that did you hear?"

She laughed, "Oh, the whole thing. I heard you in the kitchen, thought maybe you had a secret stash of food, went to join you but heard an apparently top secret phone call."

I slammed the cell phone back in the drawer, not caring if I broke it, swearing the whole way. I slid down on the floor pulling my knees up to my chest, still cussing. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit_."

She wandered over and sat down next to me, sitting in an identical way. "I told you my life's story, now I think it's time to hear yours,"

I took a deep breath. Telling her these things would trigger a lot of emotion for me, and emotion was definitely something I didn't want to confront at the moment. I decided just to dive in, stick to the facts. But as soon as I began talking, I knew that'd be impossible. I mean, I'd done this with Andy, but I didn't want to go through it again. "My name is Jessica Angell. I worked for the New York Police Department. I'm..." This was the part that hurt the most. "in love with Don Flack, who was my partner." It was like shoving a machete into my chest as I spilled out my heart for her to see only a day after I met her.

I went on to describe everything about Don, how protective he was, how funny he was, how good he made me feel... I cried a lot more than I am proud to admit, but it felt good to get it off my chest, to not have to keep bottling up Jessica Angell. Because Jessica Angell was not someone who liked being bottled up. I told her about my family, my mom, growing up, where I went to school, everything from A to Z.

It all led up to telling her about the bar shooting. "It just crashed in, and I felt the bullet. I felt it go into my stomach," I lifted my shirt to show her the noticeable scar that ran across the tanned flesh of my lower abdomen. "I'd emptied my gun, but it didn't really help. All I can remember is Don yelling over me, telling me to stay with him. I'd never heard him so scared in all the time I knew him."

Amy was captivated by my every word. Tears began to slide down my cheeks, and she placed a comforting arm around me. Admittedly, I went into a little more detail with Amy because she was a girl. Girls have girl talks. Guys can't really comprehend us all the time. "The next thing I knew, a doctor was telling me what had been done to my innards, then the FBI tells me that I was no longer Jessica Angell. I was Sarah Barnes."

"And now here you are," Amy said, capping off my story.

This was another part I wasn't going to like. "Not quite." Her probing eyes forced me to continue. "Yesterday, I had a minor run in with the law." I told her about getting arrested.

"Oh my god, that had to have been the worst. Did he recognize you?"

"Probably. He's just not putting it together." I paused again, trying to regain composure. "That's not even the worst part."

"What? How can it not be?"

"Because when I got back to the warehouse your uncle tried to rape me." I said, pointing to my eye.

Her eyes widened. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Jess... wait, what do you mean, tried?"

"Andy saved me before anything happened." I'd told her about Andy, oh, maybe an hour ago, and she, being a teenage girl, immediately jumped to the romantic conclusion. I could tell she was about to argue that case when I held up a hand. "Trust me, Amy, _that_ is another story for another day." I paused a beat and played a few things over in my mind. "Wait, how did you even end up here? I mean, I know your parents were killed, but how did you end up with Shay? Er, Dmitri." I was so used to referring to him in his American name.

"Good question. All I know is that I was at some foster care center, and he came all decked out in a suit that covered up his tattoos and was all, 'Amy we're gonna be a family,' but I think he actually used a fake name." She shrugged as if it were an everyday occurrence.

I tried and failed to imagine the image of Shay in a business suit. For the first time in a long time, I felt a ray of hope gleam through the dark clouds that were my life. I could do this. Maybe.

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

A few weeks had past since Amy had come to me. We were good friends now, and I found myself hoping that Shay wouldn't actually find a more 'permanent' place for her. I'd rather have her stay with me.

I kind of treated her like a younger sibling. We gossiped and giggled, and I felt like a crazy teenager again. But Amy was surprisingly mature. I could have meaningful conversations with her about Don, about this whole mess with the attempted rape, about everything. Even better, she swore on her parents' graves that she would not tell anyone about my real identity. I thanked one of my few lucky stars who were making fewer and fewer appearances lately.

My tattoos were now totally gone, and my hair was no longer blonde. It was the dark brown waves that I knew and loved. Sure, they were still a bit short compared to my former tresses, but now they reached a few inches past my shoulders.

Andy took to Amy much like I did- like a sibling. He was just as protective of her as he was of me. We eventually told her the story of Andy's wife, and she stopped making romantic comments about us after that, thankfully.

Shay was always weird when she was around. This particular day, we walked into the warehouse. We were to take a case of cocaine over to Manhattan. I tried my best not to think about what happened last time I was in Manhattan. But this time I had Amy with me, and I was feeling better for some odd reason. It was nice to have someone to talk to that knew my situation... and that wasn't Andy. Not that I had a problem with Andy.

"Okay, Sarah, Amy. The case is already loaded into your car," he turned to Amy and ruffled her hair. Even though she was a few inches taller than me, Shay made her look like a midget. I must've looked like a Barbie doll next to him. "See you later, kiddo."

"Okay, he's like, really weird when you're around," Amy later said when we were on our way to Manhattan. "Did you see that move with my hair? He was trying to be all uncle-y. I'm not a fan."

I laughed. "He's probably trying to convince me that he's good with kids."

"Well, don't be fooled. On the very, very rare occasions that Mom and I would visit, he pretty much ignored me, or was rude to me. Definitely not Daddy-material."

We both laughed at that. It felt good to laugh, because I hadn't laughed for real in a very, very long time.

**Good? Bad? Ugly? Owls? What'd you think? Like Amy? Hate Amy? Wish the flying monkeys would take Amy to the Wicked Witch's castle? I personally think she's kind of going to be Jess's ray of sunshine for now. Because she was feeling down and everything... anyway, please review. -Serena**


	8. Courage

**Muy excitingo! That's actually not the spanish for very exciting, but whatevs. I hope you enjoy this next chapter. I'm going to tell you that there won't be many chapters after this one. My story is winding down :'( by the way, last chapter there was a typo according to one of my readers- i originally had her have green eyes, but i changed it to blue because i realized i had like a million characters with green eyes... Amy actually has ice blue eyes. I did actually change it, so... yeah :) Anyway, I hope you enjoy the next few chapters! -Serena**

*****_PLEASE READ_*** WARNING! This story is a bit more violent than previous chapters. You've been warned.**

The Manhattan 'delivery' went off without a problem, thankfully. We didn't run into anyone, and we just walked around for a couple hours, did a little shopping, got lunch... It was actually fun. It's been a long time since I have felt any shred of hope, and now, I had heaps of it. It was great having Amy with me. She was a breath of fresh air, as cliche as that sounds.

We arrived back at my apartment, and there was a note on the door. From Shay. Fantastic.

_Sarah,_

_Send Amy to the warehouse. Send her alone._

_-Shay_

Since when had he become a man of sending notes?

"What is it?" Amy asked, peering around my shoulder. The paper bag that she was holding from Yankee Candles containing a few scented candles rustled softly as she leaned in.

"Shay wants you to meet him at the warehouse. Like, alone." I was inwardly wondering if she'd be okay with that. "I could drive you, and then wait outside, if you want."

Looking into Amy's eyes, I saw that thoughtful expression that she often wore. "I think I'll be okay. But It'd be good if you could wait. I don't think he wants to have an hour-long conversation with me, so why not?"

I choked on a laugh at the thought of Shay having girl-talk with Amy, but I quickly shoved that thought away. I would have to protect her if anything went wrong. She was my responsibility, and honestly? I really, really didn't want her to get hurt, physically or mentally. I felt a sort of maternal protection over her that I had never really experience before, and the duty that I would have to keep her safe weighed down on my mind, a constant blip on my radar.

After putting out a few newly-purchased candles, we headed out. We drove to the warehouse, and Amy hopped out. "Okay, be safe," I said, trying to disguise some of the worry in my voice, and did a poor job at doing so.

Amy shot me a wry smile. "I'll be fine." She shut the car door, and walked towards the warehouse. I tried to keep her in my sights as long as possible, but soon she was out of sight inside the warehouse as the metal door closed behind her.

AmyPOV

I was smiling at the protectiveness both Jess and Andy showed over me. It almost like being with my parents again. Almost.

I glanced around the warehouse, not seeing anyone near the thousands of wooden crates. I wasn't really sure whether or not to call him Shay, like Jess did, or Dmitri, like my mother did. I opted for the latter. "Uncle Dmitri? Are you there?"

I heard a simple response. "Back room, Amy." I ventured cautiously to the very back room, that I had yet to find out what it was used for. It was a small room, about fifteen feet by fifteen feet. The walls were made out of big bricks that were about half the size of my arm and were painted a faded white/cream color. It had a concrete floor that sloped towards the center where a drain was. There were four pressure washers on each of the walls, and bleach in a corner. I assumed they sterilized crates and what not here so there'd be no trace of drugs on them once they were thrown away.

He was facing the door when I came in, leaning casually against the wall, a handgun on his pointer finger. He twirled the gun around his finger, like one would spin a pencil, and then nodded towards the door. "Close it."

I gave him a look, but did as I was told. It closed with a metallic bang, and sounded really ominous in the now silent room.

"I'm not going to play coy with you, Amy, so I'm just going to be direct. What do you know about Sarah Barnes?" Still twirling the gun.

I was silent. I swore in my head. Did he figure something out about her and Andy being undercover? I vehemently hoped not. "Wait, what? What do you mean?"

He walked over to me, standing a few feet from me. The gun twirling motion had stopped. "What. Do. You. Know. About. Sarah. Barnes." he stated again, pronouncing each syllable.

I tried my best to look like a stupid teenager. I scoffed and put on a I'm-Trying-To-Look-Thoughtful look. "I don't know. I guess I don't know her that well."

Bam. He shoved me against the wall with his arm against my throat, making breathing extremely difficult. "Amy, do not play dumb. I searched Sarah's apartment. I found 8 months worth of drugs in a cupboard. I found a cell phone with numbers from the FBI. I found fake ID's. I am serious, Amy, _do not play dumb."_ His voice was loud and echoed off the bare brick walls.

"She was born in New Ulm, but she moved to Moscow when she was little," I said, my voice wobbly, partially because I was so freaked, and also because his arms was cutting off a fair amount of my air supply. It was basic stuff that she told me was on her witness protection identity.

Dmitri gave a harsh, cold laugh. It sent goosebumps tingling down my arms, and tears threatened to spill from my eyes. His arm pressed harder, and my hands tried to push him away with no avail. "Amy, Amy, Amy. I want you to tell me about the _real_ Sarah Barnes. The one that's named Jessica Angell."

He knew. He knew that Jess wasn't actually Sarah. He knew she was undercover for the FBI. He knew all of this. Then why'd he bring me here unless-

"Yes, Amy. Tell me about Jessica. The one you know so well."

Tears began to streak down my face. No, no, no, I can't tell him. He will kill Jess and Andy if I do. "Oh, and tell me about that nice guy named Luke Barnes who is actually named Andy Anderson."

Oh man. He really knew. He wasn't just taking shots in the dark, hoping to get information out of me. He knew. "I... can't." I managed to squeak.

He put his gun up to my temple. I gasped and squeezed my eyes shut. My fingernails dug into the skin of his arm. "Oh god, oh god, oh god," I whispered, over and over again.

"What did you just say? Did you just say 'I can't'? Well, Amy, it's not really up to you any more. If you tell me everything, you'll die quickly. It'll be painless. A bullet to the brain. You'll be gone in a second. Maybe even less. But if you don't?" He gave another sadistic laugh. "Then it will take a long time. You'll feel your life fade away, and it will not be numbing, or painless. It will be painful, and you'll want me, no, you'll be begging me to just end it all and let you die. Your cooperation will encourage the quick one."

I was no longer trying to hide how scared I was. Tears poured down my cheeks like Niagara Falls, and I was making pathetic little whimpers. I was going to die. I didn't want to, but I was. My whole existence will be snuffed out in a second by an angry mobster with a gun. "Please, d-don't kill m-me," I managed to stutter through my tears.

"Oh, but I will, Amy. I have to. You know too much. You didn't obey me, or the gang. You followed Jessica, and boy, was that a wrong move. You agreed to everything she said, without a single thought to how it was going to end."

I didn't want to admit it, but he was kind of right. "I'm n-not t-telling you anything." I said, trying to pack as much defiance into those words as I possibly could. It didn't sound very defiant as my voice wobbled and cracked. There was no hiding it. I was scared. I squeezed my eyes shut.

I mentally scolded myself. Jess wouldn't be crying and begging for her life. She'd be trying to protect those that she loved. That's what I would do. I would protect the only two people that meant anything to me any more. If I died because of it, then so be it.

As soon as I came to that conclusion in my mind, my tears ceased. My trembling stopped. My fear was ignored. "So unwise." he said with a cruel smile. Keeping his arm on my neck, he replaced his gun in the holster. He drew out a knife. My fear tried to raise it's head again. I shoved it back down. I thought of all the things that had made my life worth living- my friends back in Albany. My parents. My happy memories growing up. And recent memories, of me and Jess, just hanging out. Going down to the East River and eating Noodles & Company. Going to see movies when we were supposed to be making deliveries. Those dinky candles we bought before coming over here. Those memories helped calm me, and help me accept my death. It hadn't happened yet, but I knew it would, and I surprised myself that when I thought about it, it didn't bother me. I would see my parents again. My friends would move on. Jess and Andy would be safe. Jess could go back home. She could be with her guy. Everything seemed like a win for me.

He lowered the knife to one of my wrists. "Last chance," he said, pressing the sharp blade against my flesh.

Opening my eyes again, and looking him straight in the eye, I said, "Do your worst." I was proud to say that I sounded defiant. I sounded angry, not afraid.

That's when I felt pain. It wasn't the worst pain I'd ever felt, but it was pain. He cut through the thin skin of my left wrist, and then my right wrist. I knew I'd eventually bleed out because of this, but I didn't think of that. I gasped, and quickly drew in air, trying not to cry out. It really sucks that today I'd worn short-shorts and a tank top, because that only meant more cutting area. He sliced into the tanned flesh of my legs, leaving open, bleeding wounds before making his way up to my arms.

Tears leaked out of my eyes, but it wasn't because I was scared. It was because it hurt. My nerve endings felt frayed and burned, and my whole body felt like a gloopy mass of blood. My knees felt weak and I began to sink to the concrete floor. I lay down in a pool of my own blood. I had an epiphany then, and I realized what this room was for. It was concrete. It had a drain. It had pressure washers. It had bleach. It was obviously made to be washed clean. This was a room that they used to kill people in. I closed my eyes and sent a quick prayer for all those who'd died within this room, for I was about to become one of them.

When I reopened my eyes, I found I had scarcely enough energy to move. I could feel my life draining away, my heart fighting to stay pumping. As soon as nearly every inch of my flesh had small, stinging wounds in them, his hands wrapped around my throat, easily fitting all the way around my neck, his fingers overlapping. His fingers pressed into my windpipe, totally cutting off my air access.

It was scary, not being able to breath. My body felt as if it was burning. My eyes felt as if the were about to pop out of their sockets. My fingers and feet felt as if they'd fall off any minute. My muscles were cramping, and my lungs were screaming for air. My arms began to flail at him of their own accord. My body was fighting to stay alive. But it wasn't working. My arms were weak, and my hits were ungainly, and Dmitri just leaned over me, his face emotionless as I felt my body shutting down.

It could've been seconds, minutes, hours, or days as he choked me there. But sometime, I felt myself slipping away. I tried grasping onto something, but I couldn't find my hands. I tried to see something, but I couldn't find my eyes. I tried to say something, but I couldn't find my mouth. I tried to pull to mind any of the people that had made my life so great, but my brain was too far gone. I could see nothing, and I couldn't remember the exact point that that had become the case. One minute I had been watching Dmitri, the next I was in blackness. Soon, though, I felt myself floating away, the bodily pain no longer having a hold on me. There was no pain, no fear. I was free.

JessPOV

Amy had said that it wasn't going to be long. But a half hour had passed, and there was no sign of life. I stared at the clock. 10: 35 PM... 10:43 PM... 10:50 PM... I decided enough was enough. I leapt lightly out of my vehicle. I suddenly wished I had brought my guns with me. But no, I hadn't, because I'd trusted that Shay wouldn't harm his only niece. I was totally unarmed. Part of me hated that, feeling so vulnerable, but my vulnerability was irrelevant now. My only concern was Amy.

I walked into the warehouse. It was quiet. I walked through the impersonal building, the boots I had on making dull thuds on the concrete floors. I neared the back room when I heard it. I heard a choked gasping, like someone was gasping for air, but not succeeding. Pressing my ear up to the door, I heard the gasps get quieter, then cease instants after I arrived at the door. My stomach clenched. My heart skipped a beat. I reached down to the door knob, praying to God it wasn't locked. God answered. I threw open the door.

The world stood still as I took in the scene. Shay, reaching for a pressure washer on the wall. He was covered in blood. I frantically searched for Amy, hoping I wouldn't see what I already knew I would see. She lay in a pool of her own blood. Her beautiful skin was marred with dozens, if not hundreds of gashes, ranging from tiny cuts to gaping gashes that still oozed dark, thick, scarlet blood. Her neck was bruised, the bruise pattern forming the shape of handprints.

I did not think, I acted. I ran to Amy's side, and fell to my knees beside her, not caring if I got blood all over my clothes. "Amy!" I screamed. "Amy, please, wake up!" I screamed the words, forcing willpower into them, willing it to come true. But I knew it wouldn't. Her blue eyes were open, but they were blank and washed out. The sparkle of life was gone from her eyes. I held her torso off the ground, shaking her, and then felt for a pulse. I frantically tried to find one, but rationality told me I wouldn't find one. Tears fell down my face. My dark hair was getting into her blood, coating it with the red liquid. Her blood was everywhere. I turned to Shay, keeping a protective stance over her, staying kneeled down with my hands one her stomach, half hoping that I would feel the rise and fall of her breathing. "_What the hell did you do_?" I screamed at him, not caring who heard. I sobbed, turning back to Amy's limp, lifeless body.

Shay abandoned the pressure washer. He walked up behind me and dragged me away from Amy, forcing me to my feet and a few feet away from her body. "Please, no!" I screamed, sobbing harder. Shay threw me down on the floor, straddling me. My sobs quieted, but the tears still fell as my brain regained itself, realizing what he was going to try. Again.

"So, _Jessica._" He sneered, and I suddenly realized what happened. He'd tortured Amy until she gave up the information on me. "Ready to have some fun?"

"How could you do that to her?" I asked quietly. "She's just a child."

"A _child_ who kept secrets from me, her uncle. She knew too much." He said, shrugging as though her death were only a minor happening in the big scheme of things. Scorn and contempt dripped off the word child.

"You tortured her!" I said again, surprised at how even my voice sounded.

"I didn't torture her. I merely brought her in here, told her about how I searched your apartment," he saw my eyes widen and he smiled wickedly. "Yes, I know all about your undercover operation, _Detective Angell._" More scorn dripped off of the last two words. "I must say, though, I admire her courage. She refused to tell me anything, and well, I must say, she brought this death upon herself."

I cried again, but this time, I wasn't sure what the emotion was. Pride? Maybe, but it didn't feel right being proud of Amy for being courageous when she could've spared herself. Terror? Shay's words were scaring me, for sure, and I realized that he was going to try to rape me again. My wrists were pinned under the massive weight of his knees as he straddled me. I was afraid they might break.

"Well, Jessica, despite the fact that you've nearly ruined me and my gang, it doesn't change the fact that you are still fucking sexy. To bad Detective Anderson was there last time, because you had just let me fuck you, everything would be fine. And I wouldn't have to kill you now."

His hands made quick work of my clothes, and I shut my brain off. I tried to scream, but this room was almost soundproof. I felt and heard the crunch of my wrists breaking as he moved. He used the knife that he probably used on Amy to make cuts on my body similar to hers. I tried to kick out at him with my free legs, but I could put no force behind it. He wasn't just going to rape me, he was going to kill me.

It hurt more than I expected, and I cried out in pain and shock. I squeezed my eyes shut as tight as I could, ignoring everything that was going on in my real life. I tried to lose myself in memories, and it worked. I immersed myself in the happiest ones I could dredge up. Occasionally, I'd be brought back to reality by a punch to my face, a knee to my ribcage, the tell-tale pop or a crack of a bone breaking.

When it was all over, I felt empty. Like a shell. Jess is not here. It was my fault, I kept telling myself. Everything. Amy's death. My rape. It's because of me. I laid on the floor, my blood forming a pool around me. It wasn't much, but I felt like it was staining my clothes, which lay nearby, and making my dark hair red.

Then I heard a commotion at the door. I raised my head, not because I cared, but because I was afraid it was going to be some gang-rape situation. I didn't want to die that way.

Andy.

Shay had began to wrap his hands around my neck, ready to kill me in the exact way he had Amy, but I still lay on the floor, dazed, not fighting back. Shay lept from his position above me and skittered with eerie grace a few feet away from me, picking up his gun on his way. "This can go only one way, Shay."

"I know, _Andy_."

The shock on Andy's face was evident, because his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. But it was quickly replaced by one of one-track focus.

"Now to finish what I started." Shay said, his voice scarcely above a whisper. Andy whipped his weapon out of it's holster faster than I could blink, but Shay had the head start. I heard the loud report of gunfire in my ears.


	9. Safety

_"Time to finish what I started." Shay said, his voice scarcely above a whisper. The loud report of gunfire rang in my ears._

I saw Andy fall first. I watched him crumple to the ground as I heard a scream before realizing it was my own. I heard another thud, looked over and Shay had fallen as well. Blood pooled around his head, but I didn't spare him another glance. Blood began to stain the fabric of Andy's button down shirt, mostly in his chest area. "No, no, no, no, no, not you too." I whispered. I grabbed by plaid blouse, and shoved my bloody arms through it before crawling to Andy's side. "Andy? Open your eyes, _please._" More tears fell from my face, landing with soft patters on his chest.

I found the wound and pressed my hands over it as hard as I could. "You're going to be fine." I said precisely through gritted teeth. I don't think it was for Andy, but it was for myself. I was having a full-fledged panic attack, gasping for air. Whenever I did so, though, there was a sharp pain in my left side. My brain must've registered that as broken ribs.

Andy was able to squint up at me, frantically trying to stop the blood pulsing out of his chest in time with his weakening heartbeat. "Take care of yourself, Jessie."

"No, no, Andy, don't leave me, not yet." I pleaded, looking around the room for something, anything, even though my subconscious knew I would find nothing.

There was a long pause, and I thought he was gone, but then a heard him say, very weakly, "I'm with them, Jessie."

Then, I could no longer feel the rise and fall of his lungs where my hands were on his chest. I frantically looked for a pulse, but there wasn't one. I leaned away from Andy's body, falling backwards and scrambling away. I looked around at the room. There was blood and death everywhere. My brain was overwhelmed by it, and just stopped working. I didn't feel safe. Amy was no longer here. Andy was no longer here. I was blinking hard, trying to contain the tears pouring down my face, and I felt my contacts detach from my eyes, catching them in my hands. I stared at the two transparent, jello-y circles, and almost longed for the time when these had been necessary. They no longer were.

I had no one to turn to. I tried to stand, screaming out loud at the searing pain that shot from my left ankle and crackled through the rest of my leg when I tried to put weight on it. I kept crying as I put on my bra, panties and shorts, not bothering to rebutton my blouse after trying and succeeding with two, and then failing on the rest. I tried to breathe, but my breath was only coming in short gasps followed by waves of pain. All I could see was the blood. Amy's lifeless eyes. The feeling of Andy's life draining from his body. The feeling of Shay violating me, the pleasure in his eyes that he got from it. My brain was disconnected. Unthinking as I felt myself walk out the metal door. I had walked into it a full human being, full of hope, and full of that will to live. It was gone. I couldn't feel it any more.

Jess is not here.

It's your fault. Everything is. Amy. Andy. The rape. It's your fault. It's your fault. My brain kept telling me these things. I tried to shake them off, but my brain just said them louder. You were supposed to protect her. If it hadn't been for you, he'd still be alive. You should've fought harder. These things just kept playing, like a sick broken record of what a terrible person I was.

My bare feet padded out of the warehouse, having forgotten to put on my boots (and I had no intention of going back to get them), leaving bloody smears as I went. Thunder claps shook the ground, but no rain fell. It was almost as if the world wanted to cry for me, but couldn't do it. Lightning illuminated the sky with brilliant white streaks crackling through the lead-colored clouds.

I did not feel safe anymore. My body was carrying me wherever it wanted to go.

It could've been minutes or hours, but I began to reestablish connection with my brain. And my body wanted safety. There was only one place I felt safe anymore. Only one person I trusted more than anything else. The one person I knew wouldn't hurt me, judge me, or turn me away. I began to shiver, not just goosebumps and chattering teeth, but violent quakes that shook my whole body and made me whimper. You're going into shock, I told myself. It was a wonder I could stay on my feet at this point. The sidewalks were slightly blurry as I limped down the road. My left ankle screamed in pain whenever I put weight on it, and I hobbled along as best as I could.

My body just instinctively knew where to go. I had not been to his apartment in almost a year, but I just knew where to go. It was almost as if my body had been coded to remember where his apartment was, preparing for this day. I'm sure that some people stared at me from their cars, but scarcely cared enough to stop and ask if I was okay. As for people on the sidewalks? I didn't run into any. My body carried me through streets that hardly saw any action at this time of night, let alone when it was about to storm. I could feel the blood drying and crusting up, my hair turning into bloody strings, my clothes almost totally stained in red.

I limped onto his street, tears running down my cheeks again. This time it was because of relief. I'd be safe soon. Safe. Safe. Be safe. Get to safety.

Get to Don.

My head was spinning, and I wasn't sure what it was from, blood loss, the pain of my broken bones, or the emotions that were swirling around in my head that hadn't really registered yet.

I shoved the door open with an elbow, and was thankful no one else was in the lobby. My whole body was burning, and the pain was constant, so much so that I felt like keeling over right here, so I opted for the elevator rather than the stairs. I knew his floor and number by heart. I punched the number, leaving a bloody fingerprint. I leaned against the wall for support, and tried resting my weight on the railing that ran around the elevator. I began to relax my weight into my hands, but soon screamed out in pain. My wrists hurt like hell; they were twisted up and mangled, and I knew that they were broken. I just leaned against the wall, leaning on my back and right foot, despite complaints from my ribs. The elevator doors slid shut, and I was alone in the elevator going up to Don's floor. I raised a hand to where the pain was pulsating from my side, as though I could smother it with my bloody hand. I let out a pained gasp when my fingers made contact with the battered skin through the flimsy material of my blouse.

The elevator pinged softly, but I flinched away from the noise. It made no sense, but I was in minimal control over my body. It was 10% me, 90% survival instincts. The doors opened, gliding smoothly, and I stepped out into the oh so familiar hallway, and his door was at the end of it. My bare feet made almost no noise as I walked across the faded red carpet. I bloody hands trailed along the tacky white wallpaper, steadying myself, my wrists screaming in pain, but my mind was becoming more and more numb to all of this.

I stood before the door, and raised a trembling arm to knock. It hurt more than I expected to even complete the simple task of knocking, I was freezing, and goosebumps riddled my already mangled flesh. I heard shuffling inside of the apartment and the tears that I'd shed from relief redoubled, making me whimper in pain and desperation.

The door opened, and before me stood Don. He looked like I'd roused him from sleep. He wore only flannel, plaid pajama pants, and gave me a good view of his sculpted chest and abs, and the scar that marred the skin of his lower abdomen. I looked up at his face. The look in his light blue eyes told me that he thought I wasn't here. "Jess?"

DonPOV

I heard a weak knock on my door. "Shit," I mumbled. Throwing the covers off of my body, I swung my legs over the side of the bed. My old neighbor, Mrs. Nedermier, got confused a lot, and she sometimes locked herself out of her apartment. I had a spare key, which she gave me because she kept saying what a responsible 'police boy' I was. (Her words not mine.) She often didn't get my name right, and I often wondered if she'd be better off in a nursing home.

I walked to the door, cracking my neck as I went. Placing a hand on the knob, I threw the door open, not bothering to check the peephole because honestly, who'd be visiting my apartment at this hour if it's not Mrs. Nedermier? I was caught off guard. That's an understatement. This can't be real.

Because the person who is standing in front of me is dead.

She died 8 months ago.

I wasn't over her death at all.

I tried blinking, readjusting my focus.

She stayed put.

This must be a hallucination.

PTSD.

Or I'm actually drunk out of my mind.

Or she's a ghost. Or...

It was Jessica Angell.

But she wasn't the Jess I knew and loved. I studied her. She was wearing short jean-shorts that looked hastily put on. Her ripped plaid blouse that had two buttons mended just barely covered her perfect body, and her black bra was clearly visible. But what I noticed was her stomach. An evident white and purple scar showed where the bullet had gone in. Where the doctors had said caused too much damage. Hawkes said that she didn't even have a chance, not against that caliber of weapon. But here she was. Standing in front of me.

But she wasn't whole. I could see more blood than flesh, and it was mostly guesswork when I studied the colors of her clothes, which were stained in red. I studied her closely, and it looked as though the wounds were caused by a knife. Someone repeatedly cutting her. Some wounds were dried up, crusted with black dried blood, but most of them still bled heavily, oozing dark red blood over her body. Her wrists looked bruised and twisted at unnatural angles. One of her arms were wrapped around her torso, as if she were holding something. All of her weight was supported by her right foot, and her left ankle looked twisted up, the skin a deep shade of purple. She gasped for air and sounded like a fish out of water, except ten times worse. Bruises littered her body, on her ribs, all over her legs, and her face and neck.

I couldn't comprehend anything except that Jess was alive. That she was here. Now. And she was hurt. Badly.

"Jess?" I managed to get out, my voice strained, and still dubious.

"Don," she managed to say, her voice rasping, before falling forward. I caught her, and she didn't disappear or fall through my hands. She felt whole. She felt warm and alive. She began to sob, and I lowered her to the floor, cradling her in my arms. But soon her sobs because horrible rasps and coughs, like she was struggling for breath.

"Shh, it's okay, Jess. I'm here. I'm here." I whispered, tucking her dark hair behind her ears and murmuring words that I don't remember to her, but they must've been comforting because her sobs just turned into quiet tears. She was still gasping for air, every breath sounding like a branch scraping against the side of a building. I realized that she was really hurt. _Really_ hurt. And that she needed a doctor. Really soon.

"C'mon, honey. Get up."

She complied, leaning all of her weight on me. I rested her on my couch, and she looked comfortable, inasmuch as she could be in this situation. Picking up my phone, I dialed 9-1-1.

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

I sat in the same chair that I did when Jess was shot. I was still in a state of confusion, and wore what was a probably a stunned look on my face. I'd called her family first, and they said that they'd come as soon as possible. I'm sure her father got out of bed and was driving in his boxer shorts and slippers. Then I'd called everyone from the lab, and their shock mirrored my own, but they agreed to meet me at the hospital.

I was covered in her blood, even though I'd thrown on a gray shirt so I wouldn't be sitting in the hospital waiting room half-naked.

Mac was the first to arrive. He looked similar to me, aside from the blood, as though I'd roused him from sleep when I called. He charged in the doors, looking very much like an action hero as he skidded to a stop when he saw me. I saw his eyes raking over my bloody state. "Don..." he said, holding his arms out as he quickly paced up to me in a gesture that clearly stated his question: _What the hell is going on?_

"Mac, I... I have no idea. I was in bed, she knocked, I answered..." I trailed off, remembering the gruesome specifics of her injuries. I couldn't believe the woman I loved was alive. She was supposed to be dead. Everyone told me that she was gone. She had no chance. "She's not good. It looks like she was tortured." I hurt me to say those words.

Mac cringed. I knew he was afraid I'd say something like that. I felt the same way. I'd already lost her once, and I did not plan on losing her again.

Everyone eventually arrived, save for Jess's family. It was a long drive from where they lived in Montreal, and probably wouldn't make it until morning. I gave them the same vague story I did Mac. I wasn't trying to withhold anything, but I was just as unsure about this as they were.

A surgeon came out, and I was pretty sure it was the same one who'd operated on her when she'd been shot. She didn't look joyous, but she didn't look sad either. I took that as a good sign. "Jessica Angell?"

Our whole group stood, and the doctor walked over to us. "How is she, Doc?" Mac was the one to ask, for which I was glad. I didn't know what my speech capabilities were at this time.

"Well, the worst of her injuries were broken bones and a punctured lung. Both of her wrists were shattered, her left ankle was fractured, but it was minor, seven ribs were cracked, and three ribs were broken cleanly through, which punctured her left lung. We have her on a respirator and we are inflating the lung right now. Other than the ribs and her wrists, she was mostly just battered. The worst of the gashes have been stitched. She has a small pulmonary embolism, or a blood clot in the lung that was working. We're were able to dislodge it in time so I don't think we'll have to remove part of her lung to compensate, so that is good news. And..." the Dr. Florek paused and took a deep breath. "It appears that she was raped. Violently. She's still recovering from anesthesia in the ICU, but you should be able to see her within the hour. We've taken all of the samples and photos you need for an investigation." Dr. Florek looked back at the doors that led out of the waiting room and then back to us. "You may want to go easy on her when you ask her about what happened." She glanced back at the door again. "That girl has been through some kind of hell. Respect that."

Now she focused on me. "It's a miracle that she got to you when she did. She was slipping into shock, and if she lost more blood she would have passed out and eventually died. My guess, it was just will power and survival instincts that got her to you."

"Thank you," I said, and my voice sounded strained. I hadn't realized it, but a tear had fallen down my cheek. Rape? Torture? What the hell had she been through?

I could only wait and see.

**So, pretty intense, I know. PS I'm not sure about where Jess really comes from, and I'm actually pretty sure her family lives in New York, but I just made this having them living in Montreal, my theory of where Jess grew up (because she speaks fluent french and english and in Emanuelle Vaugier's website says she's french canadian, so...) LOVE YALLS!**


	10. Coming Back

DonPOV

I sat in the waiting room for what seemed like forever. I'd always hated hospitals. The smell. The doctors who always told you half-truths to make it sound better than it actually was. The waiting. Each second that dragged past felt like a millennia and I tried to pass the time as best as I could manage. I picked up a magazine once in a while and let my eyes wander over the words, reading them, but not really comprehending their meaning, then I'd toss it aside and pick up a different one. At some point in time, I got up, mumbling something about coffee. I moved off in an unknown direction, hoping I'd find something. As luck would have it, I discovered a small coffee machine with styrofoam cups and plastic stir straws.

I heard someone approach behind me, and I turned, styrofoam cup in hand. It was Danny.

"You okay?"

"Are you really asking me that question?"

"Yeah."

I sighed, running a hand through my short hair before pouring myself a steaming cup of coffee. I then turned to face the wall, and not looking at Danny, leaning on it with one arm. I needed to just focus on my words. "I don't know, Danny. It's... I've thought she was dead for almost a year, you know? And know they're telling me that she's alive. I just don't..." I paused, recollecting my scattered thoughts. "I don't know what to think."

Danny grabbed himself a cup of coffee in silence, for which I was glad. He loved Jess like a sister. Worry and concern were written all over his features. I needed a minute of silence to think.

I still had no idea what to think or what to do. She's alive. Maybe. I started doubting the images that I saw of her, like I saw some sort of illusion. Was it her? Was it some random person?

"I really wish I had some awesome advice to give you, but I don't." Danny said suddenly, interrupting my stampeding thoughts after taking a sip of the blazing hot coffee. He walked a step until he was behind me and paused, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder, that said what he couldn't convey with words. He sighed. "I'll see you," Then he walked away.

JessPOV

I gained a sense that I could open my eyes before I could actually opened them. I was slowly regaining a sense of my body. I could feel my toes, my legs, my hips, my shoulders although I never actually moved around. I felt a buzz in my brain that I assumed was painkillers.

Part of me wanted to open my eyes, but the other just said 'What's the point?' I didn't know what I'd do from here. Shay was dead. Sarah Barnes was exposed. Jessica Angell was raped. Andy Anderson and Amy Baron were dead. The two people who'd made my life worth living the past year were gone. Their existence snuffed out by one angry human being.

Amy. I was supposed to protect her. _It's your fault._ For once, I didn't try to ignore my brain's hissing messages. It _was_ my fault. I'd taken Amy under my wing, sworn to protect her. She was so young. Her whole life ahead of her. A life cut short because I didn't protect her. If I had gone in and gotten her a few minutes before, maybe she wouldn't be dead now. She'd be here. With me.

And Andy. He was my trusted partner for nearly a year. The only person I could trust before Amy came into the picture. He'd dutifully kept me safe time and time again, and I'd failed when it had counted the most. He died saving me. I would've gladly let Shay take my life if that meant that those two wonderful people could've gone on living their lives. They sacrificed themselves for me. I had two lives, two innocent lives hanging over my head. Their blood was on my hands. It was my fault.

I opened my eyes.

I found myself in the exact same room that I'd been in eight months ago. Room ICU405. The bed beside me still sat empty. Except this time I wasn't impatient to get out of the bed. I didn't even know if it was worth it any more. I don't even know if Don was over my death. With someone else. The thought made me want to cry again, but I held the tears back. Enough had been shed the past days. I wondered if I even had any more left.

It was hard to believe I'd been exactly here eight whole months ago. So much had happened. I'd lived, I'd lost. Mostly lost. I was a totally different person when I'd blindly agreed to take that undercover job all those months ago.

This time, Dr. Florek showed up earlier, rather than me having to wait for her. "Hello, hon. How are you feeling?"

"Okay, which is an improvement." I said, smiling. But the smile felt foreign on my face. Like someone had glued a fake mouth over my own, making me smile.

"I understand." She checked a few monitors, adjusted a couple dials and then spoke again. "Look, you've literally got a whole crowd of people out there, waiting." She stopped and looked me square in the eyes. "Jessica, the man who brought you in is worried out of his mind. Is this that Don that you asked for?"

"...Yes." I replied weakly, not quite believing what she was saying. He was worried about me. The old Jessica began to take over. _Of course he's worried about you. That's why you love him._

"Do you want to see him?"

"Yes. Just him." I answered immediately this time. I just needed to be near him. To feel his hand in mine. To feel his arm around me. To hear his voice comforting me.

Dr. Florek nodded, and patted my arm. I saw sympathy there, and that made me smile at her. It felt a little less foreign this time.

DonPOV

Dr. Florek entered the waiting room, and I stood. "How is she?"

"Awake, lucid, and talking," she answered. I wanted to weep with relief. She was okay. She was okay. She was _okay._

"She's asking for you," Dr. Florek said quietly, looking at me.

"What?"

"She asking for you. Only you." She said those last two words with a sympathetic glance to the other people in our group, but I hardly noticed.

I wanted to dance and sing. She was alive and was asking for me. I just nodded, keeping my relief locked inside as I followed Dr. Florek through the doors that led to the ICU. My mind was awhirl with emotions. Happiness, most of all, that Jess was alive. Overwhelming grief and pain at her condition. And burning curiosity at where she had been the last eight months. We all thought she was dead. Her family had scattered her ashes near a small, beautiful creek in Montreal. I'd been there.

She stopped outside a glass-walled room. "This is her room. I'll leave you two alone." With that, Dr. Florek left. I faced the door, and put my hand on the knob. With a deep, calming breath, I turned the knob and opened the door.

She was on a typical hospital bed, with the plastic bars on the sides, lumpy pillows and stark white sheets. She looked much better, having all of the blood washed off of her. Her arms rested by her sides, both wrists in plastic braces that went from her hand to just below her wrist. She wore a ridiculous hospital gown with purple dinosaurs on it, and I imagined she hadn't appreciated that very much. Her eyes were shut, and her breathing was even. But there was no doubt about it that this was Jessica Angell. Her hair, though shorter, was the same dark brown that I'd come to love. Her face looked the same, the way her cheekbones cut across her face, the gentle slope of her chin...

But even as she looked so familiar, she looked like a stranger. There were not many times when Jess had looked fragile to me. She was always strong, witty, and in-control. But now she looked a lot like a porcelain doll, and the slightest brush of the fingertips could make her shatter into a million fragments. She looked gaunt, as though she wasn't eating. Her skin had been lightly tanned when I'd last seen her, and had deepened into a light shade of bronze. But there was an underscore of white to her tanned complexion, almost as thought someone had wrapped transparent, orange plastic around her pale body. Dr. Florek had warned me about this as she'd led him to her room, saying that it was an aftereffect of the blood loss, and would not be permanent, but it still scared me. The gashes and cuts that had looked so horrific the night before were now cleaned and treated, but still held a mysterious story. A lot of the wounds had to be stitched, and the wounds held together by stitching stood out plainly against her paled complexion. It was as though she was a cloth doll, broken too many times to repair. The comparison made me shiver.

I assumed she had fallen asleep from the time Dr. Florek had left, so I then glanced around the room. I found a plastic lawn chair and dragged it over next to her bed. I took one of her hands in mine, being careful not to jostle her newly-set wrists. I laced my fingers with hers, feeling that same familiarity of her bare skin of her fingers. It was then I noticed the bruises. They flowered all along her paled flesh, some yellow, some deep purple and black. I noticed them trailing up her arms until they disappeared beneath the grown.

There were handprints on her neck. They were clearly visible, the darkest of all the bruises. Someone with huge hands had tried to strangle her and left ominous black bruises against her pale flesh.

"Jess?" I began, not sure how to even begin. "I... I want you to know that I love you. More than you'll ever know. I never got a chance to tell you, but..." I trailed off and picked up a new topic. "And everyone waiting for you in the waiting room loves you too. We need you back. _I _need you back." My voice sounded strenuous, even to my own ears, and I was about to start another sentence when I felt her fingers squeeze around mine.

"Don," Her voice sounded little raspy, but it could've been a choir of angels singing as far as I was concerned. (No pun intended.)

Her beautiful, dark brown eyes opened and her face swiveled to face mine. That's when I saw the white scar on her cheek. It was barely noticeable against her almost snowy skin, but I noticed it because of how well I knew her face. I'd studied it so many times, I knew her face better than I knew my own. Then, it fell into place for me.

Sarah Barnes. The FBI. The guns. The drugs. How tense she'd been when I'd frisked her. The conversation in the squad car. Why she wouldn't look up during the interrogation.

Sarah Barnes had been Jessica Angell.

JessPOV

I heard someone enter the room, and my mind prepared for immediate attack. It was in defensive all the time, and every doctor that went to poke and prod at my injuries often ended up with a bloody nose from a subconscious flail of my legs or arm.

I was tensing, waiting for the pain of a blow, but it never came. I heard a chair being dragged up, and surprisingly, I didn't flinch away. Instead of the pain I'd been expecting, I felt gentle hands enclosing mine. Hands I would've known anywhere. Hands that I could've picked out of a crowd of a million, blindfolded. When I heard his voice, my soul started to slowly rise to the surface, trying to break through the barricade that my mind had built up after Shay raped me that had kept my soul at bay. My body was scared. I was scared too until I realized it was him. It would always be him.

"Jess, I... I want you to know that I love you. More than you'll ever know. I never got a chance to tell you, but... And everyone waiting for you in the waiting room loves you too. We need you back. _I _need you back."

I felt tears prickle my eyelids at the tenderness in his words. He loved me. Before I'd been shot, we'd never really said it out loud before. It was always just there when we were together, not trying to raise it's head or cause trouble. Even when we'd been partners, I think we loved each other. No words really needed to be said to convey it. It was always there. And obviously, it still was. Relief washed over me, and the sensation of having a bucket of water dumped over me ensued. He loved me. The angry voice in my brain started to make complaints, but I shoved it down, and it shut up. He loved me.

I squeezed my fingers on his, letting him know that I heard him. "Don," I managed, surprised at how weak my voice sounded. Weak with relief. With the tidal wave of emotions that hit me. When I opened my eyes, I had an overwhelming feeling that everything would be right in the world because Don was here with me.

His icy blue eyes were filled with warmth, relief, and love. My favorite smile crossed his face, illuminating it and I was lost in the wonders of his eyes, and the whole world that lay behind them. I could've stared at him forever, mesmerized by the symmetry of his smile, the way the right side pulled up almost imperceptibly higher when she smiled, the way the corners of his eyes crinkled, but his words brought me out of my state of transience. "Hey, you." he said softly, the low timbre of his voice sending shivers down my spine. Everything about him stirred feelings that hadn't been touched in a long time.

I gave a full smile in return, meaning it this time. It felt good to smile, particularly at him. "Hey." I wanted to giggle at our informal greetings.

We just sat like that for a few minutes, each of us just taking each other in. I noticed only a few differences. He looked tired- perceptible bags hung under his gorgeous eyes, and a small crease between his eyebrows indicated he was worried about something. I realized it was me and squeezed his hand again, not knowing what to say.

"I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to say here." Don said, giving me a wry smile.

"It's not like this happens everyday."

"You're right."

He paused and his hand gently grazed an unbruised portion of my cheek. My body instinctively stiffened, but did not flinch away from his touch. He immediately noticed and his hand dropped. I could see hurt in his eyes, and I instantaneously felt sorry. "I'm sorry, I-"

He held up a hand, silencing me with a look of his blue eyes. "No, I am. I have no idea what happened to you or how you're even here right now." He let go of my hand, preparing to sit back, but I immediately reached for him again. His hand felt too good in mine to let it go. He realized what I was trying to do, so he laced our fingers back together, and I relaxed at his gentle touch. His other hand found its way to mine, and began drawing small patterns on the back of it, and that soothed me further. After being deprived of him for so long, the nerve endings in my had were set ablaze at his touch- in a good way. "Jess, I..."

I could see that he had no idea how to even approach this situation, so I decided to help him out. Tearing my gaze away from him, I relaxed back on the bed, staring at the white paneled ceiling. "I woke up in this exact room, exact same bed. Kind of spooky, I know. Dr. Florek comes in and tells me what happened. It mixed up my intestines, tore a few arteries, ripped a hole in my stomach, and shredded one of my ovaries." I felt Don's hands tighten around mine in response to the last statement, but I plowed on, trying to be fearless. "I tell her I want to see you, and then she's all, Oh, there are some guys from the FBI here to see you. So they come in, and tell me that they want me to go undercover with the Russian gang. I was going to refuse, I was saying that I had a great life, a great job. Then they gave me some story about how no one ever survives a shot from a Desert Eagle," I saw confirmation in Don's eyes when I glanced over at him. _Like hell they don't survive. _"and that there wouldn't be another opportunity to create a totally untraceable fake identity for the next few years, and that would delay the whole mission. The gang could put down more roots. Sell more drugs. Kill more people." I took a calming breath.

"It seemed selfish of me to refuse and let more innocent people suffer. So I agreed, and as soon as I got out of the hospital, I met my undercover partner, got a makeover, got debriefed, and bam. I was Sarah Barnes."

Tears began to pool in my eyes as I remembered Andy. "My partner's name was Andy Anderson, and he always reminded me a lot of Ace Ventura," and I went on to describe Andy and our 'adventures'. When I told him about Shay's first, failed attempt to rape me, I felt Don's hands quaking, and I looked over to see him with his eyes closed, taking deep, calming breaths. I could almost hear his teeth gritting together and his murderous thoughts.

Then I told him about Amy. Amy who died under my watch. Amy who was my responsibility. Amy who trusted me. Amy who I let down. I had to stop telling my story because my sobbing was so violent, I had to sit up and slump over, and I felt pain in my ribs, but I ignored it. I felt Don's arms encircle me, and he kept saying the same thing, over and over and over. "It wasn't your fault."

I began to sob harder when the truth of his words really hit me. _It wasn't my fault._ The realization hit me like a blast of wind to the face when I realized it. It really wasn't my fault. I hadn't killed her. Shay had. I hadn't been the one to strangle the life out of her. Shay had.

One of Don's hands rubbed my back in slow, deliberate circles, the other smoothed my hair back in a soothing, repetitive motion. I tried talking again when I was describing what he did to Amy, but my voice came out broken and stuttering, "I'm s-s-sorry, I c-can't..."

I leaned all of my weight into Don, my fingers grasping as the fabric of his shirt, rumpling it between my fingers.

"It's okay, Jess. It's okay. You're safe now."


	11. Why

**Danke shon for being lovely readers. Enjoy chapter eleven.**

After my sobbing confession about Amy dying, the doctors had rushed in, chastised Don for bringing up topics that would arouse my emotions, and knocked me out with some drug via the IV. My eyelids fluttered open, taking in the porcelain-colored walls, the clear glass one, the bed... and Don. He hadn't left my side yet. Our hands were still laced together, and his head rested rest beside my stomach, eyes closed.

He was asleep. His deep, even breathing proved that. I studied his features, normally so intense when he was awake, softened by sleep. My eyes traced every groove of his face and never found myself getting bored. It was a lot like studying a roadmap, only a lot more interesting. I could've stared at him forever, until I felt his fingers flutter slightly around mine. He slowly became conscious, and I was fascinated by his features re-righting themselves, his ice blue eyes becoming aware of everything. "Good morning," I said with a small smile.

He still looked a little groggy from sleep, his eyes half closed. "How long have I been out?"

"Good question."

He was silent for a moment before a smile crossed his face. "Were you watching me sleep?"

"Maybe." My vague answer confirmed it and he gave a small laugh.

"Not creepy at all."

"Well, who said I was trying to be creepy? You're kind of cute when you sleep." I answered with a giggle.

"Cute? Did you just call me cute?"

I laughed for real, ignoring the pain in my ribs as I did so. "I actually said 'kind of cute,' by the way. But really, what's so bad about being cute?"

He snorted. "Well, I don't know. It makes me think that you see me as a kitten or a baby monkey or something."

"You're a bit sexier than a monkey," I told him as if it was plain as day. Which it was.

I had a feeling he was about to throw out a witty comeback, but instead we sat in a heavy silence, each of us searching for something in each others eyes. I reached out and brushed a bandaged hand against his face, my fingers trailing along his smooth skin. I withdrew my hand, holding his gaze.

"Jess, what happened to you after Amy...?" he asked me gently, his voice smooth as silk against my skin. I knew he didn't want to say the words _'was killed'_ or _'was murdered'_ I'd probably have cried again if he did, and he knew that, somehow.

"I just couldn't believe what happened. She was so young, and suddenly I'm staring at her in a pool of her own blood. Shay was all, 'I'm going to have to kill you, too.' He searched my apartment, found all the drugs I was supposed to be delivering, and all of the evidence that I was an undercover cop."

I heard a sharp intake of breath from Don. "What did he do, Jess?" I knew he knew. I knew he knew that Shay raped me. It didn't seem final though, as though if I never said the actual words, it would just be buried, and would've never happened. I could forget. But the events kept playing in my mind, over and over. It was as though Shay was laying right next to me. I could feel his presence. I could feel him inside of me. Tears welled in my eyes, threatening to spill over. I tried to keep my control. _Don't say it, Jess. It never happened. If you don't say it, it never happened._ It was not rational, nor was it the real Jess. The real Jess was locked up inside, where she'd been since the rape. And boy, did she want to kick my ass. I wanted to free the real Jess, the Jess who was strong, the Jess who wasn't terrified of every sudden movement, or every person touching her. I tried to find the door to Jess's prison, but I couldn't. I couldn't let her out.

"He raped me." The admittance opened the floodgates. I heard my heart monitor going crazy, and I had no doubt that the doctors would rush in soon with some medication to knock me out again. I wanted to just curl up on my bed and just let my emotions consume me. Sitting up, I pulled my knees to my chest. It caused a lot of complaints from my injuries, but I ignored them and sobbed into my arms.

I felt Don's arms circling me, and I loosened my death grip on my knees, and leaned into him, my tears soaking into the fabric of the same shirt that he'd worn when he'd taken me to the hospital, still stained in my blood. I felt the sensation of being rocked gently back and forth, and I looked through my tearful haze at Don's face. It was marred with anger, sadness, shock concern, and compassion. I even noticed a few tears in his eyes. I'd never known him as a man to cry. And he was reduced to it by me. I knew he wouldn't think of it that way, but for some reason, I felt guilty for making him worry so much over me. I wasn't that important. I heard a small herd of doctors crash through the door, but Don's comforting arms were gradually making my heart rate slow better than any medication could. He managed to shoo away the doctors when my heart rate dropped to reasonable levels and after a bit of grumbling of protest.

"D-d-do you s-st-still l-lo-love m-m-me?" I managed to stutter, my voice still wobbly.

Don looked at my incredulously. Or like I'd gone crazy. Or both. "Of course. I love you more than anything. How could you say that?"

What surprised me is that I felt relieved. So relieved. My subconscious had been terrified of his reaction, terrified that he'd reject me, think of me as a disgusting whore. Real Jess was still locked up, but was fighting her way through to the surface. She was still pissed.

"I love you too," I whispered, my voice sounding high and strangled. Tears still leaked out of my eyes, but I felt safe in Don's arms. His presence made me feel better with each breath I took. I breathed in his intoxicating scent. He smelled faintly of cologne not fully washed off, his sharp-scented shampoo, and that smell that was just him.

My breathing eventually evened out, and Don pulled back to look at me, his eyes full of so much. "You know, everyone else wants to see you. I'm sure your family's here by now, and probably half of the police force." He chuckled. "And your Dad's probably chewing out the orderlies for no reason because you asked only for me."

I laughed as I wiped the last few tears from my face. I wouldn't doubt it if someone told me he was actually doing just that. "Send them in."

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

My father and four brothers entered the room like a herd wild animals after the nurse went to get them. My father charged in before everyone else, his expression a strange mixture of concern and anger. My four brothers, Ryan, Tyler, Shawn, and Jake, were giving Don murderous looks that they always gave my boyfriends. They'd probably charged down the hallway like a pack of runaway bulls. Don remained by my side, holding my hand, despite the silent death threats currently being sent from my brothers. He began to stand, his hand slipping out of mine as he rose.

Losing the feeling of his warm hand in mine was pretty shocking, and I reached out for him again, almost panicky. He looked back, and leaned in, his lips grazing my ear. "I'll be right in the waiting room. You need time with your family," he whispered, probably indiscernible to the others in the room. His lips brushed softly against my cheek, and then he straightened, and with a quick squeeze of my hand, he was gone. I stiffened again now that Don was gone. I felt so cold and vulnerable without him here. I kept reminding myself that this was my family, that they would never hurt me. But my body still trembled in fear, terrified of every small motion.

Dad took the chair that Don had previously been sitting in, and I subconsciously shrank away from him. Ryan and Shawn managed to find two more chairs- identical plastic ones, placing them on my right, while Tyler and Jake took up residence on the vacated bed to my left. We sat in silence for a minute, and I just kept my eyes on my hands, fiddling with the white, thermal blanket. I plucked free a loose thread when Dad finally found the courage to speak. "Jessie, what happened to you?" I realized that he'd taken in my injuries as I'd bemused myself with loose threads, and he was pissed.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Why not? You talked to Don about it."

"That's different." I tried to deflect the questions as best as I could.

"How is it different?"

"It just is," I stated adamantly, starting to get annoyed.

"Really, Jess, you can t-"

"I said I don't want to talk about it!" I said, my voice raised a few octaves. It wasn't like me to yell at people. It had been hard enough talking about what had happened with Don. I honestly didn't want to talk about it with my family members. A part of me that hadn't been awoken in a long time wished that my mom was here. She would've understood. I tried to shake those thoughts away. _She died when you were twelve, Jess. Ancient history._

I think he could tell that I seriously didn't want to talk to them about what had happened. He picked up a new topic. "Why didn't you tell us you were alive?" He asked in a small voice. As I met his gaze, it was filled with hurt- deep, deep hurt. Emotion swirled inside of me. He was hurting because of me.

"Seriously, what the hell, Jess?" It was Shawn who spoke now. Looking away from my father, I sent Shawn a glare. Since we were so close in age, we'd been a stereotypical 'sibling rivalry' example. We still were.

"Shut up, Shawn. You have no idea why I did what I did."

"Then explain it to us!" Shawn exclaimed, still sounding pissed off. But in actuality, he looked on the verge of crying. Oh man, I'd get him for that one later.

"Okay, look, I went undercover for the FBI in the Russian gang. I couldn't contact anyone outside the FBI or in my old life. So there."

They hadn't expected that one. It was my oldest brother Ryan who spoke now. "Why did you agree?" He exclaimed, his voice and posture outraged.

"Really, Jess! You let us think that you were _dead_! Why would you do that to us?" Tyler chimed in, sounding equally as angry.

I could tell Jake was about to give the same argument, but I didn't give him the chance. "Because I am a cop. And cops save lives." I went on to give them my whole spiel that the FBI had given me, about how it would take another couple years to get a good chance to make a fake identity. "So I did what I did because it saved innocent lives." I gave them all glares. "So what, you guys went through a little emotional pain. Who hasn't? It was worth it to save the lives of innocent New Yorkers, hell, maybe even around the world." As much as my words sounded confident, I was starting to have my own doubts about why I actually did it. Was it really worth all that I'd lost?

I knew my father would understand my reasoning. He'd been a police officer in his day. My brothers, on the other hand, were not. As far as they were concerned, their pain over their 'baby sister's death' had been the worst thing that has ever occurred to them.

It was Jake's turn to chew me out. "Jesus, Jess. But still, how could you do that to us? We already lost Mom and then we lose you?"

If looks could kill, Jake would be dead right now. My withering glare met the eight probing eyes of my brothers. "You think you know what pain is? You haven't even felt pain until you have been inside my head." I spoke the words in an eerily calm whisper, but I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs. My heart monitor started jumping around like crazy, indicating stress as I realized the truth of my own words. _Beep... Beep... Beep..._I had to give up the man I love. _Beep. Beep. Beep. _I befriended Amy and Andy, only to have them killed. _BeepBeepBeepBeep. _Shay raped me. _BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP. _My heart monitor went crazy as I recalled everything that happened, playing every detail in my head. I wasn't in control, it was almost like a movie was playing in fast-motion in front of my eyes, out of my control. I couldn't feel anything as the memories sped in front of me. I lost track of time, of where and who I was. Suddenly, there was only a consistent beep from the heart monitor, no longer a pause in between.

I heard voices, but they sounded very far away, like I was under water. "She's crashing!"

"Frank, get the paddles!"

"Two millileters of..."

But I stopped hearing things. It didn't occur to me until blackness took over my vision what was happening. I was dying. How the hell did that happen? I was fine ten minutes ago. After I'd been raped, I hadn't wanted to live anymore. I just wanted to lie down next to my two friends and die with them. But now that it was actually happening, I realization slapped me across the face. _I didn't want to die._ That realization finally let old Jess out. I wasn't really sure how to stop something like this from happening. I just thought about life. How great it was to be alive. Sure I had problems, but I had a whole bunch of people I could depend on, and they needed me to pull through this. I have to pull through this for them. For everyone who was waiting in the waiting room for me, for my family, for my friends... for Don. His name brought me back up, out of the grips of death, but not fully back. I was able to hear, and feel. I felt a plastic tube down my throat, forcing air into my lungs. I felt someone's hands on my shoulders.

"We've got to call it in. Time of death 9:56 AM."

"No, you can't call it in, not yet!" Don. His voice was frantic. I heard the tears in his voice. Even when I was shot, I'd never heard him sound so freaked out. When I was shot, there was still a chance that I could've lived. But if I died now, I'd be finished. Done with. The world would keep spinning without Jessica Angell on it. "Jess, baby, come back to me. I just got you back. You can't leave me again," His voice was broken, a voice of a man with no hope left in the world. I knew that if I died, it'd be over for him. He'd be destroyed. A beautiful person torn to shreds by grief. "I love you." It was spoken so softly, but was filled with so much. I needed to live.

Those three words brought me back, my eyes shooting open, like I was a beach ball held under the surface of the water. I gasped, finding it difficult to take a breath with that damn tube stuck down my throat. I sat up with a start, bending to almost touch my legs. I gasped for air, the tube not helping, with a dull ache where my ribs were broken.

"Holy hell." I heard one of the doctors say, but I was only looking for the one person I needed to see. I found his face, feeling relief shoot through me. I saw relief in his face. Overwhelming relief that trumped my own. Tenderness, worry, and exhaustion were written all over his face. For what seemed like the hundredth time, his arms wrapped around me, squeezing tightly. I never got sick of his hugs. With his strong arms wrapped around me, I felt like anything was possible. His lips found my ear. "Don't you ever, ever, _ever_ do that to me again."

I choked on a laugh. My voice was garbled by that tube that was starting to choke me. "I'll try."

**Okay, REALLY sorry to have Jess almost die there. No joke, I was actually crying and saying "Don't die, please, don't die." Ask my family. they were very concerned for my mental stability. I wrote the whole 'crashing' part on the spur of the moment so Jess could realize that she didn't want to die and to establish what a strong connection she has with Don. (but we know that already. :P i was just underlining it) Anyway, reviews=another chapter, so review, review, review! tanks :) Serena**


	12. Going Home

**A/N: Holy guacamole this took a long time to write. My left pointer finger which i use to type like everything got jammed at volleyball and is currently wrapped in athletic tape and ice so forgive me if there are any typos! i tried to find them all and fix them, but if I miss some, sorry! -Serena**

Two weeks after my heart crashing episode, I was discharged from the hospital. I was really looking forward to a shower and real food. The FBI had visited, and I had curtly informed them that I did not plan on returning to undercover duty, and they respected my decision. They also told me that Andy and I had gathered enough evidence to charge and jail the entire New York City branch of this gang. As much as I was happy that the terrible people would be put in jail, I kept replaying what I had lost to even get them the evidence they needed. I'd given them a cheerful smile and some short things about how it was my duty. Don had seen right through my little charade.

"You don't think that." He said after Agent Reed and another Asian agent I didn't recognize had left. I think he meant it as a question, but he could read me easily, so it sounded more like a statement.

"Think what?"

"That it was necessary and 'your duty'."

I paused. "I don't know. I keep asking myself if it was really worth it. I think that maybe if I had refused that assignment, maybe Andy would still be alive. Maybe Amy would still be alive."

His fingers ran up and down the exposed skin of my arm in soothing patterns. "We can say maybe, but would it really matter if you did? I mean, the past is the past, Jess."

I paused for a minute, thinking over his words. I'd think said something similar to him a while back... "I didn't expect you to come up with such a wise-sounding answer." I told him wryly.

That had been the end of our discussion.

My family had wanted to take me back to Montreal with them to recover, but the doctor made protests about the long travel time. So, with a _lot_ of protest from my brothers, (and after I reminded them several times that they probably caused my cardiac arrest) I decided I'd go home with Don to recover. Once most of my injuries were healed, however, I'd probably go back to live in my own apartment. Not that that sounded more appealing than being with Don, but I wanted to regain my independence sooner rather than later. My ribs, wrists, and ankle were still on the mend, but a lot of the gashes had healed, and only one or two still had stitches holding them together. I was glad I didn't look so freaky any more.

Not so much as freaky, but they were constant reminders of something I wanted to forget. I was informed that a few would leave visible scars, and I had mixed feelings about this. Part of me was happy that I'd be able to remember Andy and Amy's glorious existence, but a larger part was still traumatized over the rape. I hadn't had any dreams during my stay at the hosptial- I was kept in a pretty drugged up slumber- but I had a horrible feeling that as soon as I shut my eyes, I'd happen all over again. I'd relive the very worst part of my existence. I would have to replay every detail when I so much as blinked.

I was brought out of my nagging thoughts as we exited through the automatic double doors. They wheeled me out of the hospital in a ridiculous wheelchair, and I protested the whole way. "Really, Don, I have crutches, I can walk by myself."

"Hospital policy," he answered with a smirk.

I groaned, leaning my head back. It gave me a good view of Don's face, and, suddenly, being pushed around in a wheelchair didn't seem so bad if I could stare at him all day. Not that I wouldn't do that anyway, but... I was wheeled out of the automatic glass doors, and I closed my eyes, drawing in a deep, calming breath as I did so. Fresh air tasted delicious air being cooped up indoors almost twenty four seven.

We stopped at the curb, and I held my hands out wordlessly, knowing Don would know what I wanted. The cool aluminum of the crutches were placed in my hands, and I placed them on the ground, preparing to stand up. I tried to heave myself up, my hands on the very tops of the crutches, before falling back down into the wheelchair with a very embarrassing "Oomph!"

Don chuckled. I swiveled my head to send him a glare, which only made him laugh louder. "Need help?"

"No." I said through gritted teeth. I was an athlete in my youth and I knew how to use crutches. Trust me, I had broken bones, twisted ankles, torn ligaments, and strained muscles far too often to _not_ be a pro with crutches. But the wheelchair was making things tricky. When I would lean my weight forward, trying to kind of swing myself up, the chair would roll backwards, colliding with Don's legs, which made him laugh harder, as was my constant denials of his offers to help.

Finally, he just gave up asking. Bending over, his arms looped around my waist. I tensed at the contact, and I knew he noticed. I felt him tense in response, his laughter ceasing in an instant. He effortlessly lifted me to my feet, and I positioned myself on the crutches in a more-or-less comfortable manner. His eyes were dark- but I knew he wasn't angry at me. He was mad at himself for assuming I'd be okay with the contact. I tried to keep telling myself that I _was _okay with it, but somewhere along the line of my... incident, I had put up walls to anything physical. Mentally, I knew Don loved me. I knew he would never hurt me. But yet his strong arms around my waist had instantly sent me into a momentary flashback, replaying the horrid details of what Shay had done to me. After the flashback, however, I could actually feel the reason he was helping me- he loved me. I could feel it thrilling through his arms as though it was some electrical field. But even that didn't change my subconscious reaction.

After a moment of awkward silence, Don broke it. "I'll go get the car." I was stunned. When did we ever have awkward silences? Never.

I felt tears sting in my eyes. Why did I have to be so stupid? He cared about me so, so, so much.

An SUV that hauntingly reminded me of my undercover Tahoe drive past and I audibly gasped, shrinking away from the curb. "Jessica? Are you okay?" I spun around as quickly as my crutches would allow me and was faced with the kind eyed Dr. Florek.

"Oh, um, hi, Dr. Florek."

"Honey, you can call me Diane."

"Okay. Diane."

She smiled at my awkward reply. "Where's that Don of yours? Such a nice man."

"Oh, he's getting the car."

"What a gentleman," she commented with a laugh, "Valet service."

I gave a soft laugh. "Yeah."

Diane cross her arms over her chest and looked me squarely in the eyes. "Listen, I know what you went through. It can be tough being in a relationship right after something like this."

"What are you suggesting?" I snapped. As much as I was still traumatized, I needed Don. I needed him like one needs air. I would never break up with him, no matter what I was going through. He understood me better than I understood myself sometimes, and I would really need him as the months after this went on.

She gave me a look that I assumed she used when patients were getting feisty. "I'm not suggesting you break up with him. It is necessary to have someone like that on your side. But, you're going to notice things like," she thought for a moment before continuing, perhaps choosing her wording, "Shying away from physical contact. Sudden panic attacks. Acute Stress Disorder. Nightmares. Bizarre mental patterns that you'll have trouble controlling..." She trailed off. She practically hit everything right on the nose.

There was a long pause in the conversation. Her words sent my thoughts whirling. "Will it get better? Why is it worse now? I was sort of okay when I was in the hospital..." I asked her in a small voice. I didn't want to relive the rape forever.

She gave me a sad smile, "The human mind is a strange thing, Jess. And It can get better. If you get help." She slipped a blue business card into my hand. I took a glance at it.

**Charlotte Nelson**

**Women's Psychotherapy**

There was a number typed at the bottom, and another one was written in black pen beneath that. I wasn't sure how a felt about getting therapy. I was more the 'suck-it-up-and-deal-with-it-yourself' types when it came to mental issues (probably stemming from the fact that my family had been mostly male for a good part of my life, and whenever someone got injured, someone would usually say, 'Just spit on it.') Flipping the card over, I saw a note that was written in what could only be a doctor's handwriting: _I'm here if you ever need to talk. _ I met Diane's morose eyes, and I realized that it had happened to her too. She'd been raped, who knows when; I wasn't about to ask questions. She placed her left hand on my shoulder in a comforting gesture. I noticed the twinkle of gold on her ring finger. She saw my examination. "It's always good to have someone."

She removed her hand from my shoulder before we exchanged parting words. She walked towards the glass doors, turning one more time. "Take care of yourself, Jess."

At that moment, Don pulled up in his small Ford. I praised the heavens he didn't own a gas guzzler like the one that nearly gave me a heart attack earlier. I contemplated the card a few more seconds before jamming it into the pocket of my jeans.

I hobbled up to the car door, my wrists not very happy, but I ignored them, attempting to open it myself. But suddenly, it was open, and I looked up to see Don, giving me a wry smile. "It's okay to need help sometimes."

I heard the double meaning in his words, but I tried not to think about it. I wanted to get back to what life used to be like. "Too bad my pride won't allow it," I muttered. I slid myself into the car, the warm leather of the seat greeting me. I kept my crutches in front of me, leaning on my shoulders, the ends near my feet.

The car had already been started, so Don followed suit into the car and pulled away from the hospital. Diane's words echoed in my mind. _It's always good to have someone._ I gazed at Don. He'd managed to get home a few times in my two-week stay, and now wore jeans and a white t-shirt that showed off his biceps and pecs very nicely. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were a storm of emotions. Anger at the FBI. Anger at Shay. Anger at the people who shot me. Desperate that I'd open up to him... I could've stared into his eyes for hours without getting bored, examining every detail. Even if I wasn't looking deep, I could always appreciate the gorgeous ice blue color of his eyes. I suddenly stiffened.

Ice blue.

All I saw was Amy.

Her lifeless eyes looking up at me, silently screaming for help.

I tried to shake myself out of it, giving myself a mini pep talk. _You're okay, Jess. You're fine. Don't think about her. Just don't. _We'd barely been out of the hospital parking lot when I had a miniature panic attack, heavy breathing, sweat coating my palms.

Don noticed faster than I did, and found a spot to pull over. "Jess? Are you okay?" His voice was concerned, and a bit panicked.

I thought about the fallback answer of 'I'm fine', but I heard Diane's words in my head all over again. Looking into his eyes, seeing his love for me, the concern over my well being was a balm to me. My breathing slowed, and I began to feel normal again. "I..." I tried to start, but trailed off, not sure how to continue. I dropped my gaze, staring at my hands entwined in my lap.

"Jess, you can talk to me." He reached over the divide and placed a hand on mine. Holding hands didn't freak me out the way other stuff did. I had a theory. You held hands with someone because you genuinely cared about them. Shay never genuinely cared about me. Don did.

Loosening the knot of my hands, I laced my fingers together with his. I had to be honest with him. "Your eyes are the exact same color that Amy's were." I told him, my voice barely audible. It surprised me that it felt good to tell him. It was like a weight lifted off of my shoulders, and suddenly, I had the urge to tell him everything. Everything I felt, everything small detail that I wanted to forget...

"God, I'm sorry. I can get contacts or something, if you want."

"No, no, I love your eyes. I just got a little freaked out there. I'm fine, now," I said, looking him in the eyes. I wasn't precisely 'fine' but I was better than I had been. Our hands stayed together, resting on the divide. His thumb drew small patterns on the back of my hand. For months my nerves had yearned for his touch, and the contact was making them very happy. Relaxed waves washed over me, and I was slightly miffed. He was only drawing circles, big deal. But it felt too nice to complain, even if my complaints were only in my thoughts.

We filled the car with small talk and happy chatter about what had gone on at the precinct since I'd been gone, what was happening at the lab. Don was finishing up telling me about an officer who'd had her baby, and I had a sudden thought. "What were you doing?"

He looked over at me, confusion clouding his features, for a second before his eyes returned to the road. "What do you mean?"

"What did you do after I, uh... went away?"

His eyes darkened again, but this time was with deep regret and pain. He didn't speak, but I kept my eyes on him. I knew he knew I was watching him, waiting for a reply. The muscles in his neck were tensed, his jaw worked indiscernibly, and his grip on the steering wheel tightened. Tiny things that I noticed because I knew him. "You can tell me." I said gently, squeezing his hand, still in mine.

"What would you say if I told you I got married?"

"Well, Plan A) not believe you or Plan B) Say what an unbelievably lucky lady she was then contemplate kicking her ass," I answered, not missing a beat.

My answer lightened some of the tension, and he gave a soft laugh. After a few moments of silence, he sighed. "I... I literally fell apart Jess. I could barely function. It felt like nothing mattered any more." He took his eyes off the road for a second, giving his lap a pained look. "I... I killed him," he all but whispered.

"Who?" I prompted.

"The man who killed you! I mean, who I thought who killed you." He took a deep breath. "I shot him. I stood over him and shot him. I thought he took you away forever."

I couldn't speak. He killed someone because he thought I died. He shot the man who shot me. An eye for an eye. I didn't know how to feel about it. Part of me wanted to scold him. Yell at him actually. He endangered his career because of me. He'd risked jail because of me. The other part wanted to throw my arms around him. Not because he killed someone- Jesus, I'm not that callous- but because I see that he was hurting over it. As much pain as that man caused him, Don never wanted to kill him. He was being controlled by crazy emotions, and I didn't blame him for doing what he did.

My other hand found its way to where ours were twined together, closing over the other side, enveloping Don's hand in what I hoped was conveyed as comfort. "Oh, Don..." Silence filled the cabin of the car, but this time it was not awkward. Nothing needed to be said.

"Wait, stood over?..." I was going over the wording he'd used in my head, and not understanding what he meant there.

"Yeah. You... you emptied your clip and managed to wound the guy who shot you."

"Well, thank god. At least I still have some of my pride left after that terrible incident with a wheelchair and crutches."

He laughed out loud, the corners of his eyes crinkling just so, the corners of his mouth turning up jovially. I squeezed his hand, gazing into his eyes hopefully. He met mine, a similar look in his eye. "We'll be okay," I said, packing as much determination into those words as I possibly could, throwing willpower into them.

Don smiled hopefully. "Yeah. I think so."

**So, not really sure what kind of car Don drives? He kind of strikes me as a ford guy, but *shrug* anyhoodles... *straps on helmet and elbow pads, dives behind barricade, and peeks out* okay, lemme have it. -Serena**

*****_EVERYONE MUST READ_*** SO. I am changing my plans from writing a sequel to adding more chapters onto this one, mostly because the following doesn't have a super strong plot like this story did. Don't worry, though. I'm planning ANOTHER sequel after this story, and that probs will be separate.**


	13. Water and Tears

The scalding water cascaded down my shoulders, but I was numb. Don had left me alone to take a shower (The doctors had thankfully given me waterproof, plastic braces rather than plaster casts.), but now I felt in danger again. I could still feel Shay's hands on me. His lips. Everything. I shut my eyes, squeezing tightly, trying to banish my memories to the furthest corners of my mind. It did not work. I stood motionless in the white-tiled shower, steam rising around me.

His hands. They burned my skin, made me feel dirty. I looked frantically around the shower, sudden panic rising in me. I found a seemingly unused green washcloth sitting near some of Don's shampoo. I snatched it and doused it with water and some of the shampoo. I honestly didn't care if it was for hair or not, I just needed _something_ to make the dirty feeling go away. I started at my legs, scrubbing as hard as I could, as though I could scrub away everything that had happened. I worked my way upwards scrubbing harder and harder. I hadn't noticed in my frenzy that tears had begun to leak out of my eyes, blending with the water of the shower. My breathing was hard, but I didn't pay attention.

I scrubbed harder, my wrists aching dully. My skin was angry and red, and throbbing painfully, but I'd take the pain any day if that meant that I didn't have to feel Shay all over me. My tears redoubled, and my knees gave way beneath me. I landed uncomfortably on the floor, a loud thud ringing in the bathroom. I was shut off, not of my own accord, my mind tuning into a one-track focus. I had to get rid of the dirty feeling. I have to. If I scrub, it'll go away. I sat on the floor, my scrubbing redoubled with force and an almost malicious exuberance, with my legs folded beneath me.

I tried reminding myself rationally that I shouldn't do this, my skin was telling me I shouldn't do this, being a blaring shade of tomato red. I tried to stop myself, but my arms had their own agenda as they kept scrubbing in the water gone cold.

DonPOV

I could barely keep my attention on the Yankees game in front of my face. Not only were they losing, but the sound of water running in the bathroom could've been as loud as a jackhammer. I kept throwing glances over my shoulder, hoping that she was okay. I've been a cop long enough to know what raped women do in showers. My hands were clenched hard of their own accord, each resting atop one of my knees.

I heard a loud thud, and must've jumped ten feet in the air. A million separate, horrific scenarios ran through my head in the blink of an eye. When I'd left her a half hour ago to take a shower, it was all I could do not to just sit in the bathroom to make sure she was okay. I would've actually preferred to be in the shower with her. Not even sexually, just to be close to her, to make sure that she was okay. I still had to pinch myself every time I looked over and saw her beautiful face, whole and alive. I wondered if this was a dream, or I got sucked into some alternate universe. I didn't know which, but either way, I didn't want to wake up.

I tried to keep my pace in check as I made my way to the bathroom door. I knocked softly, knowing how much sudden, loud noises startled her. The doctors said it would probably wear off soon, and maybe she could even return to her old job. Even with that admonishment, I had to blink back tears. She wasn't the same Jess I knew. I wish I could've been there to protect her, to help her, but I wasn't. I know she didn't blame me, but I couldn't help but think that maybe, I could've... I washed those thoughts away when I heard muffled noises coming from behind the door. Soft whimpers, sobs even, almost undetectable, resounded quietly from behind the door. "Jess? You okay?" _What a dumb question,_ I thought to myself, and had the urge to smack myself in the forehead.

I placed my hand on the doorknob, planning on going in to check on her, when I remembered that small moment outside the hospital. I had only wanted to help her. I knew that she wouldn't want help, because she was never, and will never, be that dependent on others. But she was struggling so much, I just couldn't stand there and let her fumble around. It was almost like getting shocked with a taser when she tensed against me. It wasn't even a good tense or anything. She was afraid. Afraid that I'd hurt her the same way that son of a bitch did.

The small sobs got louder. Each time the sound hit my ears, it was like I was losing a piece of myself. Another loud cry erupted from behind the door, and I couldn't take it any longer. I twisted the doorknob, and entered the steamy room. I could clearly hear her sobs now, and I felt like lying down and crying with her. Where had the head-strong, stubborn woman I loved gone? I shoved the shower curtain aside, and revealed my worst nightmare.

She gasped when I did so, and shrank away from me. I looked her over. I ignored the fact that I hadn't seen her naked since the day of the shooting at the diner, and focused on what she was doing. She had resumed scrubbing herself, and her skin was beet red. She had this crazed look in her eyes, and she sobbed in awful, gut wrenching noises that tore at me.

Ignoring my clothed status, I joined her. I stepped into the shower, the cold water beginning to soak my clothing. I knelt behind her, and she seemed almost oblivious to my presence. My arms wrapped around her quaking frame, and I felt her stiffen again, for an instant, then she leaned into me. I gently placed my hand on hers, trying to stop her frantic scrubbing. I teased the washcloth from her clutched fingers, dropping it somewhere behind me. She gradually turned herself around and buried her face in my chest. I gently rubbed her back, trying to ease her pain.

JessPOV

I didn't know why this was happening. I used to be so strong. What happened? I pondered these these in my head as I cried into Don's chest. His strong arms wrapped around my quivering shoulders. I was convinced that I would burst from the pain that felt like it was pulsating underneath my skin. It felt good just to cry, to let the emotions flow out of me. The pain was too much to bear and having Don's strong arms around me made me feel a bit less miserable, like I could have someone to share the pain with.

After a minute or two, my tears subsided, my breathing returning to a somewhat normal rhythm. "I'm so sorry." I whispered, somewhat breathlessly.

He kissed the top of my head and leaned back. His hand brushed my cheek softly, and for the first time since my rape, I didn't shy away. I closed my eyes and savored the feeling of his fingers on my skin. "You've got nothing to be sorry about," Don answered in the same monotone that I did.

I opened my eyes, drinking in his kind features, tall, muscled frame, and the blue eyes that conveyed so much. I felt the urge that I'd felt in the car, to just tell him everything, to spill all of the secrets that I'd kept so carefully locked up.

"It hurt so much," I said, my voice surprisingly clear. My gaze fell to my hands, balled into fits on my lap. "And he enjoyed it when I cried. He liked it when I was in pain.

Water fell from my face in droplets, and I had trouble telling if it was the water or if it was tears. "I thought I was going to die. I thought I would never get out of that room ever again. And the thing is..." I took a deep, slightly shaky breath before continuing. "The thing is that I didn't care. I didn't care if I lived or died. I just didn't want to hurt any more."

Don's finger found my chin, gently making me meet his gaze. "Jess, I'll never hurt you. I know you know that, but I just want to say it. I love you so much. I can't bear the thought of losing you again."

And when I looked into his eyes, I didn't see Amy. I saw him. I saw his love. He tilted his face towards mine, pausing a breath away from me, waiting to see my reaction. I finished the motion, our lips just barely brushing together. I felt the same rush I had when we'd kissed in the past, except my memories could never do the actual thing justice. It was feather-light, yet made me want to throw myself into his arms. He made no effort to deepen the kiss, for which I was glad. I was content just to kiss him again, to feel our lips moving in synchronization after so long. He broke the kiss before I did, much to my disappointment.

"I'll always be here for you," he told me again, his lips still millimeters away from mine.

"I know." I rested my head against his chest again while the water still rained down on us.

**Just a random nugget: I'm not a fan of the way I wrote this. it feels kinda jaunty to me. and shortish. idk if thats what you thought but *shuggies* i'm kind of a perfectionist. reviews tell all...**

**I was going to save this little tidbit till the end of the story, but I can't wait, so here it is: Thank you so much to my favorite band of all time, Avenged Sevenfold, for providing me with musical inspiration for every chapter of this story. I tried to theme this story around the song Victim, but if I failed miserably, then oh well. I wanted to put that out there now cause I just couldn't wait for the last chapter to thank them. I am absolutely in love with Avenged Sevenfold. Say I'm a creep, then I say you have bad taste. (listen to the lyrics and the emotion. how could you not like them? i guess if you didn't like that genre they are, but it almost doesn't matter. they make AH-MAY-ZINGG music. Looking them up on itunes right now? or google? or bing? who even uses bing, by the way? uh oh. i'm on a tangent. geez, you gotta tell me when i do that. then I may have some power to maybe rein myself in, and- I'll stop.) -Serena**


	14. Not Okay

**Danke shon for the reviews and support.**

Don just held me in the shower for a while, stroking my hair, and I felt all of my scared feelings ebb away. Finally, Don reached around me, shutting off the water. His clothes were absolutely soaked, dripping water as he lifted me to my feet. My knees wobbled a little, and buzzing from the lack of circulation they'd received from my former position. He held my hand gently as I got out, and he followed suit. He grabbed a nearby towel, wrapping it around me from behind. "Go get dressed," he murmured softly.

I complied, somewhat reluctantly, and ventured to Don's bedroom. On our way home, we'd stopped at my old apartment, grabbing a few changes of clothes for me. It had been strange, an almost deja vu moment as I had entered. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust. Old bandages from my gunshot wound still sat in the trash can. My bed was mussed from sleep- exactly as I'd left it. I relished in the security of my former home as I chucked a few things into a bag.

I now stood in Don's bedroom, still holding the towel against my body. I just felt safe in his presence. Sure, he was in the other room, but I felt fine just being here, in his bedroom. After sliding on a tank top and shorts, I crawled into his bed. The sheets smelled like him, and I could almost imagine being wrapped in his embrace. I even went as far as to bury my nose in them, inhaling the intoxicating scent. I sighed softly, closing my eyes.

"Do you like Tide?"

My eyes shot open, and I saw Don leaning against the door frame, shirtless, and wearing gray sweatpants. He had a lilting smile on, his blue eyes playful.

"What?"

"Tide. Do you like it? You sure seemed to be enjoying smelling my sheets."

I dropped my gaze, feeling blood rushing to my cheeks. To most people, I could've come up with a witty remark in an instant, but Don seemed to hold the power to make me blush and stutter like a little school girl.

I heard his feet padding over to me, and his finger found my chin, gently tilting my face up to meet his. He half crouched, half kneeled so we could look eye to eye. "Sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you." _Since when do I get embarrassed?_

"S'okay," I answered simply, not giving thought to my own thoughts.

He sighed, his eyes not leaving mine. "I'll take the couch tonight." He kissed my cheek, a hand brushing through my hair and began to stand, and I frantically reached for him again. The nightmares. I knew they'd start up again. Amy. Andy. Shay. I shivered. I couldn't wake up alone. I just couldn't.

My hand caught his, and he turned. I imagine there was a look of crazed need in my eyes. "Please don't leave. Don't leave." I said quietly, my voice pleading.

Understanding shone in his eyes, followed by reluctance. "Are you sure?" I nodded rapidly, the look of desperation still in my eyes. He let go of my hand, walking around to the other side of the bed. As soon as he was half way in the bed, I cuddled up to his side, savoring the feel of his skin on mine. "Whoa, there," Don said with a laugh as I collided with him.

It felt too good to be near him to complain, so I stayed silent, inhaling his scent straight from the source. There was no light outside the window, the sun having fully gone down, and the only light in the room was a lamp beside the bed.

He reached over and shut it off, before taking me in his arms again. We faced each other. I could just barely make out his face in the darkness. "I have nightmares," I said quietly. "Every single night since Tillery's Diner. At first it was just the shooting, and then Shay tried to rape me the first time," Don cringed, his muscles contracting against me, "and then he started popping in. In the hospital, I didn't have any because of the drugs but..." I paused, tears prickling the backs of my eyes, but I blinked rapidly, forcing them back. "I'm scared. I don't want to live through that again." I said, my voice cracking audibly.

Don's grip on me tightened. "I'll never let anything happen to you, Jess. I love you."

"I love you too," I whispered breathlessly. His arms around my waist, our legs tangled together, I felt better than I had in weeks.

I must've fallen asleep shortly after that, because images began flickering through the blackness.

Blood.

All I could see was blood.

I saw Amy, lying in her own blood. Her mouth was moving, angry accusations hissing at me. "Why didn't you come for me sooner? You could've saved me. Why didn't you do it? It's all your fault. I could be alive right now. You're the reason I'm dead." Her voice hissed and sputtered like a snake. Suddenly, everything dissolved and I felt Shay entering me roughly again, his hands touching me, then flying out to hit me. Tears fell from my eyes. "Please stop!" I screamed. "You're hurting me. Please stop," My voice turned plaintive, begging and whimpering. I hurt. I hurt all over. Shay grinned wickedly down at me, his eyes burning like hot coals. I felt like I was suspended, trapped. I could never get out of this situation. I would always be here. There was nothing I could do about it.

Suddenly everything was gone. My eyes shot open, and I saw a different set of eyes above me. They were blue an gentle. My breathing was labored, and I was drenched in sweat.

"Jess, it's okay. I'm here, it's okay," his gentle voice soothed the tremors coursing through my body.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, not trusting my voice at full volume. I was on my back, and he leaned over me, smoothing my hair, stroking my cheek.

"Don't say sorry," he said, still making the comforting motions with his hands. He continued smoothing my hair, his blue eyes looking straight into my soul, murmuring sweet nothings, gently coaxing me to fall asleep. Eventually, I decided to fake it. I closed my eyes, my breathing becoming even. He shifted, lying on his side, an arm over my waist. I heard a light snore pick back up, and I opened my eyes again. I didn't want to sleep. I didn't want to keep reliving everything over and over again. My eyelids felt like lead weights, and I struggled to keep them open, knowing I was fighting a losing battle.

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

"Let's talk about why you're here, Jessica." Dr. Nelson said in a voice that was the picture of serenity. I'd arrived five minutes ago at her practice in downtown, and being silent seemed a surefire way to go.

My hands were clenched in my lap as I faced her. Don had convinced me to attend these sessions, worried about my frequent nightmares, and as much as I wanted to get better, I didn't think a psychologist was necessary. Dr. Nelson was older than me, perhaps in her forties. She had short black hair that reached just below her shoulders. Her green eyes were the color of jade and reminded me a lot of those Zen Calming music CDs you saw vendors selling on the streets. She wore a professional, light blue power suit that made me feel underdressed.

The room we were in was small, but not claustrophobic. The walls were painted in a neutral minty green color, that I assumed was supposed to relax the patients. I was slightly disappointed that I wouldn't get to lay back like they did on TV. Both Dr Nelson and I sat in plush armchairs that were a slightly darker version of the color on the walls. There was one window, and, bummer for me, was directly behind me. There were a few frames that held documents that declared Dr. Nelson was the best in her field hung around the room, and an antique looking desk a few feet back from my chair, in front of the window.

I tried to meet her calm gaze with one of annoyance as I answered her. "Why should I tell you?" I internally cursed. I'd broken my contract with silence.

"Why do you think you should tell me?"

"I don't."

"Why not?"

I threw my hands in the air in frustration. "I don't know. Maybe because I don't know you or trust you."

"Do you have trust issues, Jessica?"

"What?" She repeated her question, slower, and with more diction. "Why do you think I have trust issues?"

"For one, you have managed to deflect all questions that I have asked you so far to avoid telling me anything about yourself."

I cross my arms over my chest. "Maybe I don't trust you."

"Why don't you trust me?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because we've known each other for all of five minutes and you have thus far failed to tell me anything useful."

"What do you think is useful?"

I all but growled at her. "Are you insane? That's why I'm here! To find out what is useful so I can get over what-" I stopped, mid-sentence, when a small smirk formed on Dr. Nelson's face. It was the first time she'd shown any other emotion except the understanding, patient psychologist. I realized it was because I'd answered her first question. Doc- 1, Jess- 0. She scribbled something on a little notepad in front of her.

"You want to get over what happened to you, correct?"

I sent her another withering glare. "Thanks for getting that cleared up, Doc," I answered sarcastically.

She gave me a falsetto understanding smile as she scribbled something else on her notepad. "Jessica, what do _you_ want to talk about?"

I sighed. This lady wasn't taking the hint. "That's the thing. _I don't want to be here."_

More scribbling. "Why don't you want to be here?"

I had a sudden rush of anger flow through me. Who the hell was this lady to be asking me this stuff? "Because you are constantly pressuring me to talk about things that I want to forget!" I yelled. She wrote something.

"I'm sensing some anger on your part."

"Oh. My. God. What is your problem? Anyone with half a brain can see that I'm angry." Scribble.

"Do you get angry often?"

"Define 'often'."

"I don't think it needs defining."

"No," I managed through gritted teeth.

"No?"

"No. I don't get angry. I get-" I was about to say that I get scared, but I didn't want to open up to this woman. She didn't get me. She doesn't know me.

"You get what Jessica? Scared? Frustrated?"

I stayed silent. Suddenly, the room felt suffocating. The soft fabric of the chair suddenly felt like sandpaper. I felt too hot. I needed air. I stood quickly, a little disoriented. "I-I have to go," I stuttered, finding my way to the door.

"We'll pick this up-" I didn't hear the rest of her sentence, because I'd run out the door, slamming it behind me.

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

I took the subway home. Something was oddly comforting about the old task. Something I'd done in the past. Before everything got so fucked up. Don had planned on picking me up after the hour session had ended, but I'd run out after 20 minutes. I fished my cell phone out of my pocket. I dialed the number I knew by heart as I finished the block and a half walk to Don's apartment from the subway station.

"Jess?" His voice answered. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. My, um, my session finished early. I took the subway home."

I heard a worried sigh on the other line. "Are you sure you're okay?"

_Damn._ He could tell when I was lying, even over the phone. "Yeah. I'll be at home. I gotta go," I hastily ended our conversation, effectively diminishing any more chances of Don being able to tell that I was most definitely _not_ okay.

**Fini with another chapter. Reviews always appreciated :) -Serena**


	15. Jane Doe

**I hope to be finishing this story up in a while. Probably will finish up before twenty chappies. ANYHOO enjoy enjoy enjoy!**

2 weeks after coming home with Don, 2 weeks of failed therapy sessions, 2 weeks of sporadic, terrifying sleep, my ankle was deemed fit for no cast. And I was deemed fit to go live by myself again. Chief Sinclair had offered to reinstate me as soon as I was ready, and I was eager to get back on the force. And they were eager to have me back.

When word had reached the law enforcement agencies all over the US that I was unemployed, I had recieved job offers from special divisions of special branches of special government offices to head up departments with names that mostly consisted of the words 'Drug Task Force' and 'Head of Undercover Operations'. Everyone wanted the last surviving officer who'd brought down an entire branch of a gang.

I, on the other hand, couldn't think of anywhere I'd rather be than at the NYPD, in my desk, tackling New York thugs, interrogating New York suspects, arresting New York murderers, and being anywhere where Don was in my general vicinity. I didn't harbor a grudge against undercover operations, or against drug forces, but I just couldn't think why on earth they'd want me to head obviously very important offices. Of course, I had brought down an entire branch of a gang, but I didn't do it by myself, nor did I know any of the intricacies of actual undercover operations. Once I accepted Sinclair's offer, the 'job opportunities' stopped pouring in.

I woke up to Don being gone. I reached over to his side of the bed, feeling only cool sheets beneath my fingers. Don had the early shift and had already left, a note on my bag, already packed. I picked up the note and read.

_Jess,_

_I don't know what you're going through or how to make it better. You have no idea how helpless I feel when I see you screaming at night when you're asleep. I couldn't do anything to help you. I'm always here for you- and I hope you know that. But you have to be willing to let other people in. You've got to trust the people who are trying to make you better. You've got to accept that sometimes, everyone needs help._

_No matter what happens, I will always love you._

_-Don_

I traced my fingers over the ink, feeling the slight indents in the paper where he'd pressed down harder than in other places. I was about to toss it in my bag when I saw a small footnote.

_P.S. Don't be afraid to call me if you need a ride._

As much as I wanted Don's company, there was an ingrained part of me that always said that I could do it by myself. I didn't need help from anyone. My fingers itched to dial his number, to ask him to come pick me up, see his gorgeous eyes and hear his heartening laugh. But I pushed my feelings aside, needing to be strong. I decided to take the subway home.

On my way out the door, I noticed the paper sitting at my feet. Deciding to be helpful, I set my bag down, and carried the tube of paper into Don's apartment. I was about to throw it on the table when I noticed my picture on the front page. I whipped the paper open, and was staring at a larger-than-necessary photograph of myself with a giant headline: LOCAL COP BRINGS DOWN RUSSIAN GANG

I rolled my eyes. I didn't actually bring the whole thing down. Just a branch. I felt like writing that on the page in Sharpie, but decided against it. I began to read.

_Eight months ago, Detective Jessica Angell was assigned to protection duty over Conor Dunbrook during a prison transfer at Tillery's Diner. An eighteen wheeler was driven through the front of the diner, and one Simon Cade proceeded to shoot Angell with a Desert Eagle, a fifty caliber weapon, once in the shoulder, and another in the abdomen. It was reported that Angell died in surgery from blood loss._

_That is the story we know. But it is a story that is wrong. Detective Angell did not die._

_Newly released information points out that the FBI only used this incident to create a cover story so that Detective Angell could go undercov-_

The article continued to another page. I didn't want to keep reading, but curious, in spite of myself, I flipped to the specified page, skimming the continued article. I froze when I saw his picture.

_According to medical records, Angell was tortured and violently raped by Dmitri Kaskov, otherwise known as Shay Walker. We were unable to reach Angell at her apartment for comment._

I ran my eyes past that part, not wanting to look at the specifics of what they described had happened to me. They could never understand. (And somehow I wondered how the government had figured I was living with Don for the time being. I guess they had more resources than a newspaper.)

_Kaskov's body was discovered along with the body of Officer Andy Anderson, a Vermont police officer, and a Jane Doe who has yet to be identified._

Amy was a Jane Doe. To everyone in New York City, she was unnamed. Unimportant. Unloved. Everyone would forget her. They would only remember me. They wouldn't remember Andy and Amy as the wonderful people they were. They wouldn't know them. They wouldn't know Andy's stoic attitude, or the way he lit up when he talked about his wife and baby. They wouldn't know Amy's intense blue eyes, or the warmth of her laughter. No they wouldn't remember any of that.

Without thinking, I set off for the crime lab. I had to make them remember Amy. I had to.

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

I walked through the familiar glass doors, and it felt like the last time I had been there was yesterday. The cool tile flooring, the neutral colored walls, the CSIs and lab techs milling around in white coats. The security. Metal detectors, x-rays, and guards surrounded the entrance I needed. And I didn't have my shield.

Thankfully, Alan, one security guard who I knew pretty well from my three years with the NYPD, was on duty. He explained my situation, and they let me in without much of a fuss. After thanking Alan, I rushed to the stairs, not having the patience to wait for an elevator. I took steps two at a time, my ankle wobbling slight with effort after being in a brace for a few weeks.

I had to get to Amy. I had to make them see.

I reached the autopsy department, pushing through the doors, only to see Sid bent over a body, scalpel in hand, and Hawkes standing nearby. They looked up at my entry, looking thoroughly surprised. Obviously, they hadn't expected anyone, let alone me, to come crashing through the door.

"Angell?" They both exclaimed in unison.

"Where is she?" I asked in a voice that sounded slightly delirious. "Where's Amy?"

Both Hawkes and Sid looked extremely confused and confounded by my lack of greeting, and the tremulous note to my voice. "Who?" it was Hawkes who spoke.

"Who's Amy?" It was Sid who spoke next. He peeled off his latex gloves after setting down his scalpel, and both of them walked over to me.

Once they were in front of me, I placed my hands on Sid's shoulders, looking him in the eye. "Where is the Jane Doe found at Shay Walker's crime scene? I need to see her."

Understanding shone in his eyes, also a little doubt. Probably about the state of my mental health, but I didn't give it much thought. He acted more out of pure shock than out of actually thinking my request over, and led me to a sheet covered body a few tables down from me.

He pulled the sheet back, revealing the paled face and shoulders of Amy Baron.

DonPOV

"She was shot by someone wearing this cuff link, the gunshot residue proves it," Mac summed up.

"We find the owner, we find our killer," I finished. My thoughts were wrapped up in casework until I heard the voice of Sid Hammerback behind me.

"Flack?"

I turned around, seeing Sid's face poking through the door. "Yep?"

"We, uh, have a bit of a situation down at the morgue."

"Okay..." I was a bit lost.

"It's Angell. She came down to the morgue and was saying stuff about an Amy and asking to see a Jane Doe."

I froze. Amy was the sixteen year old girl Jess had lived with a month before her identity had imploded. "Shit."

I followed Sid to the autopsy room, silently cursing. Why was she here? Why wasn't she at home? I was asking questions I had no answers for. Distantly, I realized Sid was talking to me.

"She just came down and looked very unstable before asking about this Amy. She just knelt down next to the table and isn't responding to us. I'm really concerned. Hawkes and I tried to get her to move, but she wouldn't budge. She just keeps stroking the girl's hair."

I knew Jess wasn't over their deaths. She blamed herself, even though there was nothing she could've done about it. But Jess is one who protects her loved ones at all costs, even if that meant killing herself. If she failed to protect them, even though everything about the case was not her fault... Well, she thought it was.

We entered the morgue, and Hawkes was crouched next to Jess, trying to get her to move. But she looked totally unresponsive, and her eyes were far away. It was like she was seeing and unseeing at the same time. She was on her knees next to the steel autopsy table. One of her arms was over the cadaver's torso, the other was stroking the hair of the Jane Doe. My brain made the connections and I realized why Jess was acting the way she was.

I had no doubt in my mind that this was Amy Baron.

The copper-colored hair. The height. The build. And I wouldn't have been surprised if I opened her eyes and saw blue eyes staring up into nothing. And the injuries. They were almost identical to Jess's- the gashes that were splayed across her pale skin. The dark bruises on her neck. I shivered when I realized that I could've been staring at Jess on that table. If I was particularly religious, which I probably should've been at this point, (because God is clearly on board with me,) I would've sent a prayer of thanks to Andy Anderson who saved her life.

I crouched next to Jess. Hawkes stood and backed away, giving me the chance to try with her. Her eyes were wide and unblinking. Her expression was a mix between blank serenity and chilling seriousness. Her lips moved, and words that sounded no louder than a breath were coming from her mouth. "I'm so sorry," she whispered over and over again. "It's all my fault."

"Jess," I said softly. I placed my arms around her slender waist, putting gentle pressure into the embrace. I didn't want to force her to move. That would only make things worse. "Jess, you gotta get up, sweetheart."

"It's all my fault," she said again, her voice only raising a half a decibel in acknowledgment of my presence.

I wanted to yell at her, to shake some sense into the woman who I felt I didn't know any more. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. _She needs you. You need her. Don't deny it. _I wrapped my arms a bit tighter. I'd lived thinking she was gone. I couldn't stand it, I could barely go on with my life before she came into it. She was there for me. I had to be there for her.

"No it wasn't," I said gently.

"It was," she argued, her voice still quiet.

I decided to be a bit more forceful. Gentle arguments never worked on Jess. "Did you kill her, Jess? Did you strangle Amy? Because if you did, save us all a whole lot of time and you can confess."

She shook her head forcefully, her hair whipping around. "But I may as well have."

"That's not for you to decide," I informed her.

She sat silently a few moments before slowly removing her arms from Amy. I could tell she till did not believe me, but it was enough for now. She got her feet underneath herself, and I helped her stand.

Her eyes lost that glazed over look they'd had, and became sharp and focused. She gave a simple apology to Hawkes and Sid for disrupting them, "Her name is Amy Baron. Her parents died in a car accident. Dmitri Kaskov is her uncle. She lived in Albany," she stated those things the way one would say the capital of a state- no personal investment, no emotion. She then turned in my direction. "If have physical therapy in an hour. I'll take the subw-"

"I'll drive you," I said firmly before she could even utter the word subway.

** . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

I liked physical therapy more that psychotherapy. Don had had to leave a few minutes in for a case, and wished me luck before leaving. My physical therapist was more my type than Dr. Nelson. Her name was Tammy. She had red hair that was cropped to her chin, a smattering of freckles, and cat-like green eyes. And she had a voice louder than a jet engine. She'd often shout at me, telling me to push myself, and I listened, working harder, going faster. Physical pain is something that I could easily deal with. I gritted my teeth, and thought _No pain, no gain._ I'd only require two or three sessions for my ankle, and thus, we were more accelerated in the physical stuff.

"20 more reps!" Tammy screamed at me, her voice echoing off the mirrored walls.

There were a few other patients in the gym besides me, lifting weights or using exercise balls, all with sympathetic, gentle therapists. It just so happens that I get the one terrorist of the group. Lucky me. A few eyes looked sympathetically in my direction on occasion when Tammy yelled.

I was doing lunges with ten pounds in each hand, and my calves and thighs burned, but I ignored it. The pain only meant I was getting better. After the twenty, I stood, sweat making my palms slippery, and I quickly set the weights down before I dropped one.

I began to sit, when Tammy yelled again. "Do not sit down! You have twenty minutes of water treadmill before you can even _remotely _consider sitting down."

I followed her to the water treadmill, located across the hall from the gym- it was basically a treadmill under water that kept most of the stress off my ankle. As Tammy waited, foot tapping and arms crossed, I went to the locker room and changed into a red two-piece bathing suit that the therapy people had lent me. As I slid the spandex-y material over my skin, I caught sight of my scars. The one on my stomach and my shoulder from the shooting were the most visible of them all, ranging from white in some places, to deep purple in the next. Some were more noticeable than others. Thin marks ranging from faint white lines to light purple ones were scattered across my flesh. I wished I could cover them up somehow, but since that was impossible, I did my best to ignore them. I walked out of the locker room, tossing my towel on a bench nearby.

Tammy had been looking out a window, and turned when I entered. "Good god, were you fixing your makeup in..." she stumbled a bit over her words when she caught a look at my body. It was the first time she'd actually had the chance to see my body almost fully exposed, and gave her a perfect look at my marred skin. She was caught way off guard, but she didn't let it show for long. A millisecond later, she'd recovered, "in there? Jesus, Jessica. I am aging as we speak!"

I was about to point out that I wasn't the one doing the talking, but decided against it as I entered the pool, placing my feet on the rubber surface of the treadmill. The water wasn't cold, but it wasn't warm by any stretch of the imagination, and I shivered slightly as my torso sunk below the surface. Tammy flipped a couple switches, and the treadmill started, going at an easy pace.

For the very first time since I'd met her, Tammy lowered her voice. I almost didn't recognize it. "Do mind me asking what happened to you?"

Fuck. Yeah, I knew she'd eventually ask, but that didn't make me any happier about just parading through the streets proclaiming what had happened. "Yeah, I was shot, tortured, then raped," I answered, deadpan. I tried to keep my face as straight as possible, as if we were talking about anything.

"Oh, god," Tammy whispered. I cast a glance in her direction. She stood, eyes wide, taking in my scarred appearance. "I can't even imagine-"

"No, you can't," I told her, my voice still deadly quiet.

Tammy shut up for the rest of the session.

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

DonPOV

The double and triple shifts were brutal. I'd hardly been home today, and cursed the fact that half the department had decided to use a sick day today. I wanted to be at home when Jess left, or even have been able to drive her home. In wanted to make sure she was okay after the whole incident at the morgue today. I wasn't sure the state of her car, or even where it was, and I was never comfortable with her riding the subway. Of course, she'd always had her .22 with her, and I was one hundred percent certain she didn't have it with her now. Sinclair had asked me to take another shift, after I'd already worked two today. He'd felt bad about it, apologizing profusely.

I'd begun to give him some line about duty and an oath that I don't really remember, because at that moment, the police radio flickered to life. "911 call from 435 River Ave, screams coming from room 504. We have possible 37, possible 42. Code three, immediate response requested."

My heart dropped. My stomach clenched. I couldn't breathe. Time stood still. That address was Jess's apartment building. Room 504 is her apartment. 37 meant aggravated assault. And 42 meant... aggravated rape.

"I gotta go." I literally tore out of Sinclair's office, and found my way out of the building without running anyone over. Even if I did, I probably wouldn't have noticed.

I flung myself into the nearest unoccupied squad car, deciding I could figure out the logistics of it later. "Denver en route to 435 River," I broadcasted. I flipped on the sirens and the lights, and slammed down on the gas.

"Pauls also en route," I heard crackle back. I tried to shove the pedal down further, already floored. Millions of scenarios flooded through my head, each seemingly worse than the first. My imagination conjured up cruel images- Jess lying in a pool of her own blood. Jess dying with a bullet through her chest. Jess with her throat slit open. Jess with a knife in her stomach. Jess lying on an autopsy table. What if the guy who raped her wasn't really dead? What if he kills her? What if it's someone from the gang? What if it's about drugs? What if it's random? What if she can't defend herself? What if she has no gun? What if she-

I got there as soon as the two patrols did. I withdrew my service weapon, and before I even greeted the two patrols, was flying in the door.

**So, I feel really cruel, but hey, it's a pretty good cliffie, eh?**

**Okay, so, I've been in physical therapy before, and I'm pretty sure most therapists are gentle and encouraging, but the one I got was exactly like Tammy- a screaming, Nazi-lady drill sergeant. It just so happens I got the one aberration in the field. And I'm not really sure how to describe the underwater treadmill thingies... just look it up on google images and you'll see why. And lunges seem more like a calf/thigh exercise, but I was trying to think of very painful exercises- lunges with weights are definitely one of them (But I've had to do it with thirty pounds in each hand with about 3 or 4 sets of fifty for volleyball. I could not walk for the next week.) Not sure if they use them in physical therapy? *shrug* I tried.**

**By the way, code three means for police to proceed with lights and sirens. Denver means detective. Paul means patrol. 37 and 42 are described.**

**Just so ya know: I'm a night owl writer and I wrote this during the day, so if you don't think it's my best work (I don't) now you know why. (It's a really weird thing... I just suck at writing before 5 PM. It's a fact of life I have to deal with :P)**

**Please keep reviewing! Serena likes reviews!**


	16. Free

DonPOV

We were soon standing outside her apartment door. I could clearly hear her screams, her pleas. "No, please, leave me alone!" I heard her scream. They viciously grated against my heart. I couldn't wait.

"Go," I said to my fellow patrols, and I crashed through the door, forcing it open. Now, without the impediment of the door, her screams hit us with full force. It nearly made me come to a standstill, but I kept my legs moving. I had to get to her. The patrols were clearing rooms, yelling 'Clear' at me, but I didn't pay attention, all of my energy focused on getting to her.

"Jess!" I yelled, following her terrifying screams. When she didn't respond to my voice, I got scared. Petrified. I kept going. She needed me. That was all I could process.

Her bedroom door was shut, and there was no doubt that the screams were coming from behind it. I crashed through in a similar manner as I had the front door. After flipping on the light, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. What I saw gave me immense relief, but also terrified me at the same time.

She lay on her bed, and thankfully, by herself. But she was obviously having another nightmare. She thrashed around on the bed, her covers thrown askew by her flailing appendages. Her hair looked wild and tangled. Her skin had a light sheen of sweat on it. "Leave me alone! You're hurting me! Stop!" Jess kept pleading in her sleep. The two patrols appeared behind me.

"That must be one wicked awful nightmare," I heard one of them say, but I hardly heard them.

I rushed to the side of her bed after holstering my gun. I gently shook her, trying to wake her from her nightmare. "Jess? Jess, wake up." I gently encouraged. Fear flowed through me, sharp and undeniable when she didn't respond, and her screams continued to pierce the night.

JessPOV

It was my first night alone since I was still under cover. I stared up at the blank white ceiling, my eyes refusing to shut. Sometimes, I would be too hot, and I'd throw the comforter off of my body. Soon after that though, I would be freezing, and yank the blanket back over my quivering form. My skin felt clammy, and my whole body ached (whether that was from physical therapy or something else, I didn't know.)

I kept hearing Don's words in my head. _Everyone needs help._ Jessica Angell never needed help with anything. Like, ever. I was in a profession that consisted mostly of men, and I was constantly trying to prove myself, to show the guys that women could do just as well as them. I made a habit of doing everything on my own. _Everyone needs help. _I thought of Tammy. I thought of Dr. Nelson. I thought of Stella, Lindsay, and all of my other friends at the NYPD. I thought of Don. _Everyone needs help. _That included myself.

Eventually I felt my eyelids close, sleep overcoming my rampaging thoughts. Like every night, a dream flickered through my subconscious. But this night, it seemed scarier than the others. Maybe because I didn't have Don to wake up to.

Everything seemed, sharper, everything more painful, every sound reverberating inside my head. I sat on the ground in a small clearing in a forest, almost perfectly circular. The short, green grass caressed my legs softly, the breeze rustling my hair. The sky was overcast, making the light was dim, but no rain fell. In any other situation, I would've considered the clearing beautiful. Then I saw them.

Amy and Andy. They stood in front of me, smiling. They looked normal. Scratch that. They looked very un-normal. They looked exactly as they had when the died. Andy looked pale, his hands somehow bonier, his face gaunt. His blood ran down his chest in a continuous river from the wound right where his heart was. Amy looked worse. Her skin was a hue of blue, and the cuts that had looked so similar to mine gushing red blood. The dark handprints around her neck stood ominously against her sickening, pale blue skin.

"You shouldn't have lived," Andy hissed, his voice sounding like that of an old man three times his age.

"You need to come back with us," Amy whispered in a similar fashion.

They kept reaching out for me, their hands trying to grasp at my arms. I screamed, trying to hit their hands away and I tried in vain to stand on run, only to trip and fall to the ground once again. "No, please, leave me alone!" I kept screaming at them, pleading with them; but they wouldn't give up.

"We gave our lives for you. You owe us," they hissed in unison.

"_No!_" I screamed louder than I had in my entire life as their hands finally found purchase, and solidly grasped my wrists, dragging me with them in the direction of the forest. "Let me go!" I screamed at them. They refused to listen. The grass that had felt so nice earlier had somehow gone brown and dead, and scratched at my legs and feet as I tried to fight them. I tried to dig my feet into the dirt, but they kept dragging me, immune to my struggles. My shoulders and wrists felt wrenched as I tried pulling against them with no avail. "Leave me alone! You're hurting me! Stop!" I kept screaming.

Their faces showed no emotion. They were perfectly blank as though they didn't realize they were dragging a screaming woman behind them. My throat was raw as I kept screaming, willing for someone to hear me.

Suddenly, everything dissolved. I was back in my bedroom. I had continued writhing for a few instants before I realized where I was. My room. And I also realized I was not alone. Don's hands were on my shoulders, his blue eyes holding my gaze with one of concern and fear. Two uniformed cops stood behind him.

"Don?" I whimpered, my voice small.

"It's okay, Jess," he comforted, his arms wrapping around me, bringing me to a sitting position.

My breathing was heavy as I took in the faces if the cops behind me. I vaguely recognized the man as a regular patrol who usually ran night duties named Tony and the woman who I only knew as Dani who looked in her late forties.

"What's happening?" I asked. I was surprised I hadn't cried yet. Usually after these dreams, I burst into these painful, gut-wrenching sobs.

"Your neighbor called 9-1-1 when they heard you screaming," he said, his voice a little weak.

I tried to play it off like nothing was wrong. "Oh, wow. I feel stupid," I said, giving a small laugh and a lofty grin. Tony and Dani, still standing behind Don, looked like they bought it, with lilting smiles of their own, but I could tell that Don didn't. His blue eyes were searching mine, trying to find something, and his mouth was set in a tight line.

With one last look at me, he turned to Tony and Dani. "Can you guys call this in-let em know it was a false alarm? I've got everything covered here," he said, his voice one of authority.

They nodded at their superior officer, and began to show themselves out. "I'm really sorry to inconvenience you," I said as they left my bedroom.

Dani turned and gave me a smile. "Take care of yourself, kid."

"I try," I responded before they left.

Don sat on the edge of my bed. His shoulders sagged, his face weary. I knew he'd worked a long day today, and I was only making it worse. "Don, I-"

"You're coming to live with me," he said, keeping his posture and face neutral.

"What?" I didn't think I'd heard him right.

He turned, placing his hands on my upper arms, and looking me in the eyes. "You're coming to live with me. I hate not being able to keep you safe."

"Last time I checked, I am safe," I said, waving my arms around my bedroom.

He dropped his gaze, his breathing deep and even. Worry and concern were written all over his features, clearly as print on a page. I knew I should listen to him. I tried to tell myself that I needed help, but the words sounded stale in my head.

When Don looked up, I saw tears brimming in his eyes, making his blue irises sparkle in the light. It made my breath catch ever so slightly and my heart skip a beat. "Jess, do you realize how scared I was? I-" he looked down again, blinking hard, his breathing becoming arrhythmic. His gaze returned to mine. "Do you realize how fucked up I was when I thought you died? I drank all the time, I didn't show up for work... It just felt like nothing mattered any more. It felt like I was just going through the motions." He hugged me close then, his arms squeezing tightly around me. "I thought about killing myself more times than one. I thought about it, thinking I could just end it all. The pain could be done with," he whispered into my neck.

I felt shivers go down my spine. I couldn't imagine a world without Don in it. I just couldn't.

"I'm s-"

"Don't say you're sorry. I'll stay here tonight. Let me just call it in to Sinclair."

He left briefly, and I could hear him speaking in the other room, his voice muffled. He soon returned, a glass of water in his hand. He handed it to me, and I took a sip of the cool beverage. After that sip, however, I realized how thirsty I was. Plus the cool water felt good on my aching throat. I downed the whole glass in one swig. He smiled wryly. "Whenever we got scared as kids, my mom would always bring us water," he laughed, "Sounds really unoriginal, but it always did the trick." I set the glass down on my bedside table.

After flipping off the lights, he kicked off his shoes, tossed his sport coat in an unknown direction, and climbed onto the bed, facing me. His arms wrapped around my torso, joining behind my back, and I felt almost as though I was in a cocoon of awesomeness, really. It felt so good, so right to be in his arms. One hand brushed a lock of dark hair away from my face, before it promptly fell right back where it was. I could just barely see the curvature of his face in the darkness. "Go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

I knew he couldn't promise that, but I knew he'd do his damnedest to make sure it was so. I let my eyelids close, hesitantly at first. But Don was there, and he'd would always be there. I felt myself drift off into sleep.

I promptly had another nightmare, and I awoke, sitting up, panting rapidly. Looking over at the digital clock by my bed, I saw I'd only been asleep for a few hours.

"Jess? Are you okay?" His blue eyes were concerned, his tone worried.

Don still lay next to me, looking ridiculous lying in my bed with his work clothes still on. _He'd look even better without them, _I thought. I startled myself. I hadn't had many remotely sexual thoughts in a long time. Now I was surprised at how bad I wanted it. As horrible as the rape had been, there'd been no love there. Don did love me. I wanted to let him know that I loved him too. I knew how good sex could get. Sex with Don was like the apex of living. The last time we'd actually done it had been the day of the shooting. And I missed it. Horribly. Not being able to feel where his body ended and mine began. Not being able to separate emotional pleasure from physical. Hearing him whisper to me, tell me I was beautiful, how much he loved me.

I acted before I gave any thought. My knees straddled his hips, my hands around his neck, and my lips on his. His eyes widened into bewilderment before giving in, his hands resting on the small of my back. My tongue swiped across his lower lip, and he granted me access, and our tongues twined together. My hands ventured across the smooth, hard planes of his chest of their own volition, before they sought out the buttons of his shirt. I undid a few before Don's hands seized mine, and he flipped us over so he hovered above me.

"Are you sure?" He breathing was ragged, and desire had darkened his eyes. Sometimes, if I shut my eyes, I could feel it happening all over again. I could feel Shay all over me. But then I'd see him, hear his voice, feel his love. My skin tingled underneath his touch, and my body burned for more.

"More sure than I've been in a while." I told him, my mind clear for the first time since the rape. I felt free as his lips found mine again. This was where I was meant to be. It was freeing. When he touched me, I didn't feel like it was Shay raping me, I felt DOn. I felt his careful hands brushing softly against my skin, being careful not to hurt me. His voice caressed my ears, saying 'I love you' over and over again. And I felt it. Everything in the world felt right. Nothing could touch us here.

I was finally free.

**So. I was going to write a bit more mature scene there, but what I wrote felt good enough to just stand alone. (Plus I didn't want to have to change the rating... I may post the M-rated version of this chapter later on as a one-shot, but no promises.) Please review and tell me what you think. -Serena**


	17. Maybe

**_***PLEASE READ***_Sorry for the rift in updates. There are these two things that WILL be the death of me, and they are called: honors classes, and volleyball every day until five, and games til nine thirty, if we're lucky. (we have to travel with the b-squad and JV and watch their games, too, so...) Just so you know, my fabulous river of inspiration for CSI: New York hasn't dried up yet. Still going strong. I'm just going to struggle to find time to write, so don't be expecting the frequent updates I was able to post during the summer :( by the way, what'd you all think of Jo? I'll miss Stella a ton, but I kinda like Jo. Her dry wit really amuses me. BACK TO THE POINT: This will be the last chapter of Undercover. :O NOOOOOO! Thanks for the support from my readers. I'll see if I can get a sequel up for you all :)**

I woke to the sun streaming through the window. I realized with a smile that it was the first time I'd slept through the night without a nightmare. I felt good, and my body felt light as a feather. We both needed that last night, there was no doubt about it. I disentangled my legs from Don's, and turned to face him. His features were dulled with sleep as they always were, but this time a soft smile-barely there- graced his lips.

My movements must've woken him. His eyes slowly opened, looking around. I gave him a quick peck on the lips, which got his attention pretty fast. "Morning," I murmured.

His soft smile grew wider, but he stayed silent as he brushed a lock of hair out of my face, tucking it gently behind my ear. "Morning," Copying my greeting.

I leaned in and placed a soft kiss on his lips. I made no attempt to deepen this kiss, and found myself content with the simple show of affection. I breathed in his scent, and tasted his lips thoroughly before I pulled back, reluctantly. "I have an appointment. Physical then psycho," I laughed weakly at my lame nicknames.

"Need a r-" I wanted to punch him for asking me that, but at that second, his phone rang, the ringtone the same dull jingle that I had often encouraged him to switch.

_"How 'bout this one?" A song that reminded me of the Beach Boys echoed from the phone. I even added a few crappy hula dance moves to go along with it._

_Don laughed. "No thanks."_

_"Why not?"_

_"What would suspects think if they heard that ringtone coming from my phone?"_

_"I bet they'd think, 'Wow. This detective is one swell guy for having such a neat-o ringtone. I'll give him my full cooperation.'" I said, using my best man voice, and struggling to contain my laughter after saying 'swell' and 'neat-o', which were both words that my dad must've found amazing and loved to use them in every sentence._

_"If they're using the words 'swell' and neat-o' then we might have the wrong guy."_

_"Jump to conclusions much?"_

He sat up, carrying on a conversation that would most likely take him away from me for a little while. I propped myself up on my elbow, mesmerized by the way his lips moved. "I'll be there in twenty," Don said before hanging up, and tossing his phone to its original resting place.

"Gotta go?" He nodded wordlessly. I tossed the covers off my body, and set about seeking out some clean clothes. "I'll make the coffee."

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . **

"I think I'm okay," I said as I almost crashed through the door to Dr. Nelson's office. She was sitting in her usual chair opposite the window, writing what must've been a world peace plan seeing as the level of focus she was giving it. She nearly hit the ceiling when I burst in. Her legs that were always crossed over each other uncrossed, and she looked as though she thought she was hallucinating._ Did she just speak? Voluntarily?_

She took off reading glasses which I'd never noticed before, put on a falsetto smile, and placed a dramatic hand over her heart. "Oh, Jessica. You startled me," she said, even though her tone did not convey the meaning of her words.

Suddenly, she was back to business, replaced the glassed on the edge of her nose, clicked her pen, and gave me an attentive glance. "What do you mean, 'you're okay?'"

My shoulders felt light. Who knew it would be sex that would make everything better. It made me wish we'd done it sooner, but then I knew it wouldn't have been right until that moment. "I feel better. Lighter, you know? It's like suddenly I don't have an invisible weight I didn't even know I had any more." I paused. "That made no sense."

Dr. Nelson gave a small smile. "It makes perfect sense." I leaned back in the chair, feeling comfortable for the first time. "You know I have to ask you if you're over the rape. Witnessing the killing of a close friend. Seeing the fresh body of someone you considered a sister."

I sighed. The slight feeling of agitation began to rise in my gut, but this time I didn't let it take over. I had to confront this if I wanted to get over it. I realized I had been silent for a while. "Just take your time," Dr. Nelson said soothingly.

I saw Amy's lifeless body in the morgue. I had no doubt Andy's was probably in the same room. Their blank eyes. The blood. I took a steady breath, doing the yoga breathing I'd learned from my sister-in-law. It helped a little. I closed my eyes and replayed last night in my head. It almost made me smile that thinking of sex would make everything better. Pretty shallow, but last night was absolutely amazing. The agitation began to subside, but still lurked under the surface.

"I don't know. I mean, I can talk about it and not be absolutely overcome with emotion. It doesn't mean I have to like thinking about it."

"Do you feel as if its your fault?"

That question was tougher. "I don't think so. I mean, I didn't make him do it. But, I... could've fought harder..."

"Jessica, don't. You fought hard. I saw the reports. The man who raped you was a giant, and you put up a good fight."

"I've taken down bigger guys before. But it didn't help, did it?"

She sighed. "Jessica, rape isn't about sexual fulfillment. It's about power. People who want power, and are willing to do anything to get it. You couldn't have done anything to deter him from raping you, or killing your friends. He was power hungry, and that can never be satiated."

Deep down I knew she was right. "I just wish I could go back in time and do something to stop it from happening the way it did."

Dr. Nelson smiled kindly. "I know how you feel. But it's not going to happen."

"I know."

"The best thing that you can do is try to move on." I had a sudden flashback to the night Shay tried to rape me for the first time. Andy and I'd had that long discussion about his wife and unborn baby. _It's better to remember them than to dwell on them._ It's like an unintentional foreshadowing of my fucked up life.

"How?" I asked in a small voice.

She gave me a patient smile, and it seemed genuine this time. "Time."

I sat in silence for a long minute, mulling her words over in my head. "It wasn't my fault," I whispered, inaudible to Dr. Nelson. I felt a soft breeze blow from behind me from the window, making chills run down my spine It was a warm breeze, but shivers went down my spine, and goosebumps raised themselves on my skin. I could almost feel a glowing from within my stomach. A slow, deep fire that chased away the goosebumps. I could've sworn I heard Amy and Andy's voices in my head, saying: _Good for you, Jess. _I looked back. The window hadn't been open.

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

One Month Later...

I'm back to work now. I sit in the same desk that I used to have. It, unsurprisingly, hadn't been filled yet, what with all the pay freezes and budget cuts. I fell easily back into my old routine, and a sense of normalcy and peace settled in me. My relationship was going well, my job was totally kick ass, and I was happy. For the first time in a long time, I was happy.

I hadn't officially moved in with Don yet. Old habits die hard, and we tried to keep our relationship as quiet as possible. Sure, a few gossiped. Okay, maybe more than a few, but I didn't let that get to me. I spent most of my nights at Don's, and he seemed okay with the idea that occasionally I be on my own in my apartment, now that most of the nightmares ceased. Most, not all. Rarely, I'd get one, but they were hardly as vivid and terrifying as the ones I'd previously experienced. They were often fuzzy, and I barely remembered them when I woke up. They consisted of no feeling, no realism. It was like watching a movie through your own eyes. Every so often, I'd get a terrifying, realistic one, but they were very sporadic. I started to get (almost) a full night's sleep every night, and the dark bags that had hung under my eyes disappeared.

I sat at my desk, eyes cast downward at a file. I let out another yawn. I had lack of explanation for my tiredness. I was mostly on restricted duty, and only seldom went into the field with either Kaile Maka or Don. Today had been as uneventful as most, and I was staring at crime scene photos of a robbery gone bad. Another yawn forced it's way through my mouth. I leaned back in my chair, stretching my arms towards the ceiling. A few kinks cracked in my spine and neck. I moaned quietly at the sensation. I caught Don giving me an amused look. "What?" I asked playfully, smirking.

He tried to look unconcerned. "Oh, nothing. You've just been yawning and stretching for the past two hours." He lowered his voice. "It gets hard to concentrate," he said cheekily, a joking smile on his face.

I rolled my eyes. "Deal with it, pervert."

He laughed, his eyes falling back on his paperwork, and I returned to my own as well. I checked the time. _4:48_ read the clock on the wall. I closed my eyes and sighed. Usually around this time I started to feel sick. A deep curl of nausea rose in my stomach. Right on time.

_Damn it. _I pushed away from my desk, and walked a little faster than necessary to the women's bathrooms. Immediately after locking the stall door behind me, I swept my hair back with my hand, and emptied the contents of my stomach into the toilet. The bile burned my throat, and my stomach clenched again, trying to rid me of everything I had eaten that day. A few minutes later, I slumped away from the toilet, the acrid contents swirling down into the sewer system. I sat down on the cool tile floor, and I rested a sweaty cheek against the cool metal of the bathroom stall, letting the cold penetrate my face. I took deep breaths, and the nausea, thankfully, began to subside.

Dr. Nelson said that these symptoms could be lingering affects of PTSD, and to just wait them out. When she said that, I felt like shoving her face into a wall, but I knew she was right. Because I didn't have any other explanation. But my mind conjured up one for me: _You're pregnant._ My eyes opened in shock. I'd never considered pregnancy before. The PTSD explanation had pretty much kept me out of exploring other options. But when I thought about it, pregnancy wasn't too far out there. Of course I took clinical birth control in the form of injections every few months that were 99% effective (said the nurse who gave it to me), but there was always that 1% chance that it wouldn't work.

She'd also told me that certain herbal remedies could negate the effects of the injection. My eyes opened wider. I drank a lot of tea in this job. Sure, it tasted like bits of boiled grass, but it helped with jitters that coffee caused. Maybe there was an herb in there that could've caused something to happen? I mentally went through my menstrual calendar in my head. I wasn't due to have my period for another week, so I wouldn't be able to tell off of that.

Don and I were a trusting enough couple not to use condoms, and then I realized that me being pregnant was a very, _very _real possibility. And one that scared the shit out of me. "Oh my god," I whispered, not trusting my voice at full volume. "Oh my _god_," I repeated, my voice slightly louder, over and over. I wasn't ready for a baby. I didn't know the first thing about babies. I was certain of the fact that I'd make a pretty terrible mother. I was all right at taking care of myself, but I could not be trusted with a fragile, tiny human being with limited english skills, and that constantly needed rescue from choking on tiny objects.

I've seen a natural mother before. My sister-in-law, Lana... now that is someone who was born to raise kids. She's a miracle on two legs. Her life is all about her kids: what time Sharon's soccer practice was, when the spring band concert was, what brand of mac and cheese her kids like, Jeremy's favorite places to go on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, whose dentist and doctor appointments are on Tuesday and Thursday, what kinds of kids' toothpastes had been recently recalled, what toys contained lead paint... the list went on.

I can't be like her. I'm hardly organized enough as it is. I didn't want to quit my job. If that happened, I'd have to hire a nanny, and God knows how much that will cost, let alone all the food for the baby, and all those diapers and stuff... My salary was anything but rosy, but it got me through my days, which was enough. But if a baby came on board...

I tried figuring out ways that this would work, but I couldn't. _I could get a second job. I could ask for a raise. I could get a loan. I could ask my dad for..._ In my thinking, I hadn't considered Don at all. My whirling thoughts suddenly screeched to a halt. I didn't want us to be one of those couples who gets married because the girlfriend is pregnant, and ten years in, they get absolutely sick of each other, and go through a nasty divorce, and-

"Angell? Hello in there?" My head snapped up. I realized tears had leaked out of my eyes. I swiped them away with my sleeve, at hearing the voice of First Grade Detective Kaile Maka outside the stall door.

I stood, sniffling quietly, hoping my eyes didn't look too puffy. _I might not even be pregnant. _I unlocked the door, and faced with all 5"4 inches of Kaile Maka. "Hey, Maka."

She studied me intently, her brown eyes probing my face. "You okay?"

I tried to keep my expression neutral. "Yeah. Why?"

"Sounded like you were trying to regurgitate your lower intestine in there."

"Oh, just, um, PTSD the doctor said."

Kaile gave a knowing nod, "I feel your pain."

We stood in an awkward silence for a moment. I had a feeling Kaile had a sense there was something I wasn't telling her, but I honestly didn't feel like divulging my fears of pregnancy in the middle of the ladies' bathroom. "Well, I better be going," I finally said. I took a step around Kaile, before going to the sinks to rinse the sour taste of vomit out of my mouth. As I washed my hands, I heard Kaile walking out from behind me.

I reached for the hand soap. I heard her pause. "I'm always here if you need a shoulder to lean on, or cry on, or whatever sentimental shit should be said in this situation." Her crass response made me smile.

"Thanks, Kaile." I rarely called her Kaile. I heard her leave the bathroom. The sound of running water filled the silent bathroom. I was frozen, soapy hands in the water. _You might be pregnant._

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

Later that night, my mind hadn't slowed down. Don and I were watching some baseball game on TV, but I could hardly focus. Not only were my thoughts racing in circles, but my eyelids drooped dangerously low on my eyes. I could hardly focus on singular shapes and colors anymore. Everything swam before my eyes, me powerless to stop it. I was curled up on his lap, a fleece blanket thrown haphazardly over us. His arms were wrapped protectively around me, and one hand occasionally brushing hair away from my face.

_I should tell him._ Would it even be worth it, especially if it turns out to not be true? What if he leaves me? What if he doesn't want a baby? If he doesn't, how can I cope as a single mom with a full-time job? I have to tell him.

"Don?"

"Jess?" We'd both spoken simultaneously.

"You first," I told him, a smile playing on my lips. Nervousness stewed in my stomach. My stomached clenched and unclenched, and a little fragment of nausea began to rise again. I tried to ignore it.

I looked up at him. His eyes were a mix of emotions- nervousness being primary. He ran a hand through his hair- a nervous habit. I'd learned his nervous tendencies and hadn't forgotten them. He blinked more often. He took lots of deep breaths. He ran his hands through his hair. He'd crack his knuckles. Fiddle with anything in reaching distance. All his motions read one thing: He was nervous. There weren't many times that I could recall seeing him nervous. I could probably count them on one hand. It made me slightly on edge that he was so uptight about whatever he was going to tell me. "Just spit it out."

He took a deep breath, his arms tightening around me. "Jess, I don't really know how to do this. I've never felt this way about someone. I..." He paused. Took another breath. "I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?" He withdrew a black velvet box from his pocket. Within, a silver band that looked almost woven around a tastefully small princess-cut diamond. It glittered in the soft light, and all of my worries about a baby vanished. The voice of the announcer from the game on TV was the only sound beside our breathing. "AJ Burnett with an IRA of 5.33 takes the mound..."

I tore my gaze away from the ring, and looked into his eyes. Gone were his nervous tells. He looked sure of himself as he held the ring in his hand, waiting for me to hopefully say yes. It quelled my butterflies in my stomach somewhat that he was no longer freaked out. He wanted to marry me. That was why he was nervous. It was my turn to tell. I couldn't trap him in an engagement if he didn't want a kid right away. I closed my eyes. Breathed in. I couldn't do that to him. Out. I had to be strong. In. Be sure of myself. Out. Just do it. In. Suck up your feelings and just fucking do it. Out. "I think I might be pregnant."

**Bahahahaha! Cruel for me to end there. I'll try to get a sequel up as soon as I can so you wont be left hanging! Thank you to all of my faithful readers and reviewers who helped me through this story, and I hope it lived up to your expectations :) If not... well, then too bad. Even though I said it a while back, yay for Avenged Sevenfold! Warmness on the Soul was the primary song of inspiration recently. Go check it out. Now. Anyway, to all my readers, I love you all more than you'll ever know, and I sincerely thank you. -Serena**


	18. Capsizing The Sea

Okay. I swore I would never, ever do this, but here I am. Let's just get this over with.

For all those readers of this story who are unaware, I've begun a rewrite of this story calledCapsizing The Sea. The response has been... not as good as I would've liked, or even planned. I've written two chapters thus far, and I'm hoping not necessarily for reviews (although those are a pretty nice reward) but just for more story traffic. It's nice to know that a story is being read out there. Alerts are nice, and favorites make me pretty giddy.

Anyway, I'd love it if you could check it out. No pressure, just a little weird promoting by me :)

Since I hate when authors just post AN's and no substance, here's a little literary preview of the first chapter of Capsize. Bear in mind that chapter One is pretty long, and this portion isn't even the whole thing. Granted, it's about 60% of it, but I digress. Read on!

_CHAPTER I: Descent into Darkness  
_

**Real loss only occurs when you lose something you love more than yourself.  
~~unknown**

**Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.  
~~****Kahlil Gibran**

**New York-Presbyterian Hospital**

**Operating Room 7 of Dr. Carla Griblam**

**8 hours into procedure  
**

It took a lot to impress Dr. Carla Griblam. Her superior intellect that took her through MIT and Johns Hopkins with nothing but her own, hard-earned money from various loans and scholarships funding her education and sheer willpower could sometimes leave her feeling slightly unimpressed by the exploits of others. She had single-handedly clawed her way out from beneath the poverty line to become one of the country's best trauma surgeons, and had seen more in her 27 years as a surgeon than some saw in full careers. She was the epitome of 'pulling yourself up by your bootstraps'.

But, she could safely say that she was thoroughly astounded beyond belief. Just over eight hours ago, an NYPD detective had burst through the doors of the ER, covered by the blood of the young woman in his arms. There had been no time to wait; she was bleeding out as the man set the dying woman on a gurney. As Dr. Griblam was briefed on the situation, she found herself wondering how the young woman had managed to survive as long as she had, and was considered stable enough to attempt the surgery that would most likely take her life rather than save it. While she was scrubbing in, she remembered betting the woman wouldn't last 10 minutes on the table.

The woman was struck twice with a .50 caliber weapon, once in the right shoulder, and a second time in the left abdomen. Initially, the shoulder had been her biggest concern, but Rashida, the nurse who was considered the head of the ER, had quickly ascertained that there was no bleeding in the lungs, and thus they were probably intact and functioning. After a very rushed cursory examination, the first of many lucky passes was discovered. The .50 caliber round had only connected with soft tissue of the upper right thoracic cavity. The bullet tract went straight through the shoulder, fitting almost neatly between the clavicle and coracoid process, narrowly missing both bones and the right lung. Needless to say, the shoulder wound was the least of their concerns.

Meanwhile, nearly half of her abdominal cavity was on display. A bullet of such large caliber could do so much damage. The wound the young detective received was about the equivalent of being shot at point-blank range by a sniper rifle. The wound was right on the border between the left lumbar and umbilical regions of her abdomen, but the wound was not perfectly straight as the shoulder wound had been. It appeared as though she'd turned slightly, most likely due to the fact that she was struck in the shoulder, and left her side wide open for attack. The bullet tore easily through her vital organs- her large intestine and left ovary were shredded, almost beyond repair, there were countless lacerations to her stomach and small intestine, and the bullet had finished it's journey after having torn a rather large hole in her abdominal aorta. That key artery was their biggest worry. The threat of shifting the bullet hung over their heads as they were very aware of it's position. The fact that the bullet was inside the wound it had caused was tamping off enough of the blood loss that she was still alive. Ironic, really. The thing that very nearly killed her also saved her life.

There were several other major arteries feeding blood to her vital organs that were also pulsing thick, black blood. It hadn't looked very hopeful. One of the most talented residents at the hospital was a young man named Jeffery Synova, who, much to Carla's delight wanted to become a trauma surgeon. The pair worked in tandem as though they'd been doing it for years, when in actuality, they'd been working together for barely a few months. While they worked on rerouting blood flow from several arteries and cauterizing the gaping wounds the bullet had left behind, they were beginning to medically lower her body's temperature to slow her heart rate and blood flow.

Dr. Synova had clearly wanted to remove the bullet from her abdominal aorta, worried deeply about possible damage to her spine if it shifted. "Dr. Synova, right now, that bullet is all that is keeping this girl alive on our table. As crazy as it sounds, we need to leave it in if we want to keep her alive."

Jeffery's eyes widened, but he did not take his eyes off of the electro-cauterizer he was delicately placing against the living flesh. His associate was in the middle of placing yet another tourniquet when he said, "That's against hospital policy."

Dr. Griblam did not slow her moving hands as she stated, "Which is more important, the hospital's policy or your Hippocratic Oath?" Her rhetorical question hung in the air of the ER as the two surgeons desperately moved to save the young woman's life. She'd flatlined twice already, only restarting her heart with large doses of epinephrine and vasopressin. Needless to say, her body wouldn't be able to handle many more drugs. The excessive medication could easily become more of a hindrance than a help.

Once they had a control of the majority of the blood flow coming from the sliced arteries, they turned their attention to the abdominal aorta. Dr. Griblam shuddered. It did not look good. The huge bullet was an imposing, unwelcome presence in the living cavern of her body, but it seemed to be tamping off at least some of the blood flow. It was lodged in a precariously dangerous position, nearly severing one branching renal artery, and it blocked the blood loss from two severed of four branching lumbar arteries. Again, Dr. Griblam was blown away that the woman was still alive.

As Griblam and Synova made a plan of attack, heavy blood flow shoved the bullet from the renal artery, and it now solely blocked the two damaged lumbar arteries. Black blood began to quickly fill her abdominal cavity. "Damn it," Carla cursed, voice determined, but it was obvious she was losing hope. "The bullet shifted. If the artery is fully resected, we'll need to reroute to the other renal artery. It seems more-or-less intact. We don't have time for a graft. She might lose the kidney, but she's got two and at this point we don't have a choice."

"We can revisit the graft option later if she survives," Jeffery added, hoping dearly this woman would make it. He did not like losing people on his table. Granted, no one did, but the aspiring trauma surgeon had seen the other man who brought her in. The look in the NYPD detective's eye as he gazed at his fallen colleague indicated the two were more than that. "Suction," he ordered a nurse who began to calmly remove as much of the blood as possible from her abdomen so the two surgeons could have a clear picture of the damage.

An avulsion of the distal right renal artery was as obvious as it was severe, but it was about the best thing Dr. Griblam could've seen at the moment. They could temporarily fix it, using a catheter or an angioplasty could realign the artery, and a temporary stent could be used to keep it open, all the while preventing any more blood loss from that region. Griblam looked up at one of the assisting nurses, and ordered the properly sized angioplasty and stent, which were delivered in mere moments. Griblam was always very grateful for her well-prepared surgical team. Their preparedness had saved patients on more than one occasion.

After a quick check on the two lumbar arteries, and the major laceration in which the bullet sat. It did not look good. There was the main laceration to the artery which the bullet had caused, and then there was secondary trauma to the two lumbar arteries, which were spewing a small amount of blood, but the bullet was able to hold off enough bloodflow to those two veins that she was still alive.

Again, Dr. Griblam was blown away. This patient had literally sustained enough trauma to kill three people, lost almost enough blood to fill another person, and was still vastly injured; the temporary 'band-aids' they'd applied looked like the desperate stitching trying to hold together a broken doll, because that's exactly what she was. Broken.

Jeffery easily handled the angioplasty and stent on his own while Dr. Griblam began the arduous process of trying to figure out how to remove the bullet without killing her. She'd survived eight hours, and Carla began to pray that she would survive a few more. If they could use a balloon catheter to cut off the blood supply to the wounded area, it might buy them enough time so that they could harvest a leg artery to graft in for the damaged tissue. Granted, if they cut off blood flow in the abdominal aorta for too long... Carla didn't think about it. The girl was dead if she didn't do it. At least this way she'd have a fighting chance.

She began to prepare for what she would later consider one of the biggest risks she'd ever taken in order to save a patient's life. Hell, she'd already taken several enormous risks in leaving the bullet in. What was one more?

**Two Hours Later**

"Close her up."

Dr. Carla Griblam was thoroughly satisfied. Her patient lived. Even after two more episodes of fibrillation, and one more flatline, Jessica Angell (she'd later looked up her patient's name) had survived. Carla still could not believe it. That wound was _fatal._ Utterly, completely _fatal._ The surgeon did not understand how she could have managed to survive. If she had a particularly large ego, she could say it was her superior surgical skills that saved the woman's life. But deep down, she knew it was something else. If she was devoutly religious, she could say it was the hand of God that kept her on Earth. If she was a cheesy romantic, she could say that Jessica Angell had someone very important to come back to. Since she was none of those things, she just praised the wonders of the resilience of the human body. The patient was short one ovary, and many of her vital organs seemed to be held together by children's glue and dear hope, but she was alive.

When she was preparing to removed her bloodied scrubs, a herd of suited men infiltrated the OR. "What are you doing? You can't be in here!" Carla shouted angrily. Her mind immediately thought of all the infection they could expose her patient to. Her body, quite frankly, was far too weak to deal with microscopic invaders. They were still transfusing as much O negative as they could into her, and an infection was the _last_ thing this patient needed while she was recovering from massive blood loss.

"This patient is now under the custody of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. No one is to leave this room until we say so." Carla eyed the one that spoke suspiciously. He was tall and muscular was about as much as she surmised before she laid into him.

"If you could wait until she's in the ICU to recover, that'd be just peachy. We need to start warming her up _now._ She's been too cold for far too long, and unless you'd like for her internal organs, which just took me over ten hours to fix by the way, to begin to shut down, you'll let me take her to ICU."

The man seemed undeterred. "You will have to begin warming her in here. What we have to say here must never leave this room. If any of this information is told to anyone, you will all be charged with treason. Is that understood?"

Carla scowled at him, seeing as how he was blocking the doorway, and the way she saw it, her patient's recovery. She turned to her nurses, "Get as many warming blankets as you can and start pumping her with warmed IV fluids." She turned back to the man, "Unless of course she dies of septic shock because we did not get her to the ICU in time."

Again, the man did not look perturbed by her outbursts. "None of you are to inform anyone that this patient is alive." Murmurs of shock and confusion rippled throughout the team. "We are placing her under the custody of the federal government."

"So you want us to lie for you?" It was Synova who spoke this time.

Unflinching, the man met his glare with a steely gaze. Jeffery could almost feel himself wither under the oppressive glare. "Yes. This victim's time of death was at 7:08 PM. She expired from massive blood loss coupled with her internal injuries."

"What about an autopsy? This woman was shot, there was foul-play!" Carla wasn't sure why she was arguing any more. It seemed to be a lost cause, but it was her duty to protect her patient. And she'd just gone through hell trying to fix her, so she sure as hell wouldn't allow _anyone_ to just swoop in and take her away, federal government or not.

"The FBI will take care of the details. All you must report is that this victim died because her injuries were simply too great for her to handle." The woman that was Dr. Griblam was furious that she could not adequately care for her patient if they took her. The woman that was Carla was saddened that the woman's miraculous survival would never be acknowledged.

Finally backing down, knowing that the more she fought, the longer it would take for Jessica to get the care she so desperately needed after her surgery. She stepped out of the man's path with a look of reluctant resignation on her face. "I do not agree." It was as much of a concession as they would get.

Things happened quickly then. The man explained that she would be brought down to the morgue to give the appearance of death, and the FBI would obtain custody of her 'body' from the New York Police Department.

And Carla was faced with telling Jessica's family that she was dead.

**New York-Presbyterian Hospital**

**Basement Floor, Morgue**

**Early Evening**

**New York City, New York**

Dr. Sidney Hammerback stood before the covered corpse of a young woman. Her dark tresses were fanned around her head, almost as though they'd been purposely placed that way. Her face was relaxed, the result of having passed away under heavy anesthesia. He was happy she went as peacefully as possible. Her death had occurred such a short time ago, she still held most of her natural color, her lips and cheeks still a vibrant pink. It simply appeared as if she were asleep, a very eerie comparison to the truth. Sid knew it would not be long before her corpse began to lose its pallor. The rest of her was covered by a typical, blue morgue body sheet. Sid was very familiar with them. It seemed stiff, as though it was freshly starched. He could see no detail of the body that lay beneath the sheet. He supposed he could be glad about being spared the gruesome details for the moment.

In all his years as a medical examiner, he'd never been forced to autopsy someone he knew, someone he considered a dear friend. The closest he'd ever come to doing such a thing was when Anabel Pino's body had turned up on one of his tables. He recalled the feeling of dread that crept up on him as he realized who it was, the slow nausea that made his stomach churn as he remembered how she'd laughed with her deadened mouth, how much she loved Marty with her no-longer beating heart... alas, that love took her to her grave. He remembered refusing to do Anabel's autopsy, and the knowledge that he could not do the same now nearly paralyzed him. He'd given Don his word that he would be with her the whole way, and he would do just that. He hadn't seen or spoken with Anabel in several years. Now, the body that lay before him had once been inhabited by someone he considered a dear friend- the last time he'd spoken with her had been yesterday. He found himself desperate in trying to recall the last thing he said to her. It is strange that the most insignificant things suddenly become the most important things. Death seems to have a way of turning the world upside down.

"I'm so sorry, Jessica," he told the young woman. It was strange, seeing her so still. Jessica Angell had always been a woman in motion. He could only imagine the pain going through Don's conscious at the moment. The young detective left only a moment ago with the frightening whisper, when referring to Jessica's killers, 'And God help them.' Sid had no doubts about the other man's intent as he stalked out of the morgue, leaving a wake of despair and darkness behind him. The aging medical examiner could only hope that Flack would do nothing foolish. And Sid held no illusions that the hope was strong. As a practical matter, Flack had just lost the love of his life. To Sid's knowledge, they hadn't really come out and told anyone they'd been seeing each other; it just seemed to become a widely known assumption about the partners.

He had originally planned on packing her up and shipping her back to his own morgue, perhaps in the notion that he knew Jessica would want to be somewhere familiar. He was well-aware of her aversion to autopsies. He remembers her telling him once she didn't want to be autopsied. "_Unless I drop dead, and you guys have no idea why, and have exhausted all possible alternatives, then, and only then, can you autopsy me." _He was saddened by not respecting her wishes, because it was quite obvious how she was killed- the .50 caliber bullet to the left hemisphere of her abdomen. Any other caliber of weapon, and Sid would've called it a recoverable injury. As it was, the kidnappers just so happened to be packing military-grade weaponry, not to mention the man who would fatally wound Detective Angell plugged two .50 caliber bullets into her relatively small body with a Desert Eagle pistol. The fact that she was able to withstand two spoke fathoms about her pain tolerance, balance, and just plain stubbornness.

The Desert Eagle is, simply put, a semi-automatic rifle packed into a hand gun. There is a reason people call it 'The Hand Cannon.' Using a gas-operated system normally found in military-grade rifles, the Desert Eagle lacks the normal short recoil or blow-back designs, allowing the barrel to not move as it fires. It's a combination that spells 'deadly' for whoever is on the receiving end of a bullet. It has almost no practical use in the real world, mostly being a gun built to intimidate.

Sid had planned exactly how it would go, had already begun the process of filling out the precursory filing for the autopsy, and had only to obtain a signature from the nearest attending to finalize the body transfer. He found it despicable that her body was now treated as evidence, as property of the New York-Presbyterian Hospital until Sid himself filled out the paperwork that would officially rule her death a homicide, and custody of her remains would go to the New York Police Department Crime Lab. _Despicable,_ he thought again.

With a deep sigh of resignation, Sid stepped towards the metallic table, steeling himself to prepare her body for the imminent transportation.

The events that followed are somewhat of a blur for Sid. Some moments stand in his mind with a crystal-clarity, like a photograph, while others are glazed over and hard to recall. Sid would later assume it was the brevity of the moment, but it made it no less poignant.

A tall, heavy-set African American man with a neatly trimmed goatee and a shaved, bald head came in first. He was an intimidating presence- his tall frame hadn't an ounce of fat on it, only heavy, thick bands of muscle stretching over large bones. His dark, almost black eyes had the ability to intimidate any soul they set their sights upon. At that moment, he set them upon Dr. Hammerback.

He flashed his credentials. Federal credentials. "Agent Victor Reagan, Homeland Security. Do not touch that body."

Sid placed himself between the intruders and Jessica. Federal government be damned, he wasn't letting them get anywhere near her. He'd promised Don. He'd _promised._ "This body is the property of The New York Police Department," the ME said, sounding more authoritative than he thought he even had the capacity to.

"Not anymore," stated Agent Reagan, producing an Executive Order to the startled medical examiner. "I have orders to take this body as evidence in regards to a recent terrorist threat."

The crisp white paper trembled slightly in his hands. There was the president's signature, right there in the corner. He recognized the names of several other high-ranking Washington officials... Secretary of Defense, director of Homeland Security, Secretary of the State, director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation... It was all he could do to try and speak in his defense, "This woman was not killed in a terrorist attack. She was killed during a kidnapping attempt of Connor Dunbrook." Sid's voice rose in crescendo towards the end of the sentence, realizing that he was right. A terrorist threat? How stupid did they think he was? "I'm sorry, but it would be irresponsible of me to just release this body without proper inquiry into what purpose you have with her," he asserted.

Agent Reagan gestured to the Executive Order, "Perhaps the President of the United States' signature was not enough for you?"

Sid could clearly see the annoyance etched on the Homeland Security agent's face. The aging medical examiner sighed, "I understand, it's just that... this is the body of a very good friend. And I promised that I would be the one to perform her autopsy when the time came."

Agent Reagan seemed to soften slightly. "If you allow us to take her body, there will be no need for an autopsy."

Sid looked up in shock at that. No autopsy? It's what Jess always wanted. As much as he knew Jess liked him, she would've preferred to not have him rummaging around in her insides. "Then... why... why are you taking her body?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but that is highly classified information."

Sid sighed. He cast a glance at Jessica's body. By now, he noticed a team of roughly four individuals had gathered around her body, waiting for Agent Reagan's okay as to whether or not they could move her. "She never wanted an autopsy... you may..." Sid struggled to find his voice. "Take her." It pained him to say those words, pained him to disregard a friend's wishes while honoring another's.

Agent Reagan placed a hand on the ME's shoulder. "We will take good care of her. I promise."

**Roughly 12 hours later**

**Washington Hospital Center**

**4th Floor, Surgery Recovery, Intensive Care Unit**

**Room SR264**

**Washington, D.C., United States**

Being in a coma after massive blood loss is a trying experience, like trying to swim through sand. Everything in your body is sore, every breath is an effort, every beat of the heart is pulsing unwilling blood through seemingly shrunken veins.

The sensation was all too familiar to Jessica Angell as she awoke slowly, feeling as though her entire body had been ripped apart and put back together again. She tried to sit up, but the air was forced out of her lungs and tears stung her eyes when she felt a stabbing, agonizing pain shoot through her abdominal area. The first thing on her mind was confusion. _What on earth happened?_

Her mind was a jumble of images and sounds;_ shattering glass, unending blue, complete and horrible pain unlike any she'd ever known, sirens, the feeling of vertigo, and then utter silence._

She breathed carefully, closing her eyes and trying her best to rearrange her scrambled memories. The last thing she could clearly remember was her assignment. Guarding Conner Dunbrook. Yes, that was it. She was on courtroom duty, and she remembered being a little grumpy about the assignment, knowing that it was job for uniforms and not a detective, and she'd told the captain as much... was this at the courtroom? No, somewhere else, with tables and chairs and a window that encompassed nearly an entire wall... They were at the Tillery Diner, that was it. She could clearly remember the large bay window. In fact, the clear glass window stood out in her mind amongst the rapidly organizing clutter of her memories. She remembered ordering her favorite breakfast... Don's teasing about her predictability in breakfast? She remembered that... Was he there? She didn't remember him being there. No, she remembered suddenly. He called her. They made plans to meet up when their shifts ended.

Their conversation ended before he could tell her what time he'd be over. Why?

She sought the source of the shattering glass noise that had dominated the flashes of memory. What had shattered the glass? Was it a sniper? No... something bigger. A vehicle. A vehicle drove straight through the diner's front window. The massive bay window that stuck out in her memory like a sore thumb.

Why?

Her detective mind automatically provided an answer: a kidnapping attempt. It must have been. She was escorting a very high-profile witness to the courthouse. A kidnapping is the only straightforward explanation. And she remembered the weapons. Military-grade.

And she remembered the Desert Eagle.

The one that shot her.

_You were shot._ The realization startled her. She'd come very close before to being nailed by a bullet, but each time it turned out to be a graze. She'd been stabbed, sliced, and a myriad of other injuries before, but never shot.

Her mind was slowly re-righting itself, and she easily pulled up the memory of shooting at the man wielding the Desert Eagle, the feeling of being punched in the chest, holding her footing and managing to empty the rest of her clip, (she thinks she remembered hitting him...) and then she was on the ground with an intense burn of pain in her side.

She remembered Don's eyes, panicked and terrified, over her. She remembered feeling safe now that Don was there. Whenever he was with her, she always felt so safe. She remembered letting her eyes drift shut with the knowledge that she didn't have to protect herself anymore, that her partner would take care of her.

With her painful memories completely open to her, she began looking around the room. She was in an impersonal hospital room, outfitted it white. There were no windows, which she was painfully aware of. She thought she was alone until she spied a young woman who was wearing black pants, a pair of combat boots, and a green blouse. What Jess did not miss was the gun and holster on her hip and the gleaming, gold badge next to it. _Why would I be guarded by a plainclothes cop?_ "Who are you?" Jess called out, her voice sounding a bit off to her own ears.

She jumped slightly, obviously not noticing that her charge was awake. "Agent Susan Cheney."

The word _agent _threw Jess off slightly. She'd been expecting an officer, a detective at the most... a closer inspection of the badge made the injured NYPD detective realize it was not a police department badge. If she was correct, it appeared to be an FBI badge. _The FBI?_ _Why would the FBI be guarding me?_ "Why are you here?" She asked, but then another question seemed slightly more pressing as her priorities became clearer and clearer. "Where am I?"

"Washington Hospital Center."

"Washington? As in D.C.?"

"Yes."

Jess paused. "Why am I here?"

"You'll have to speak with Agent Reagan."

A brief pause, and then a sarcastic, "Not the talkative one, are you?"

Agent Cheney didn't find it very funny, and wisely chose not to answer. Instead, she pulled out a cell phone, dialed a number, and spoke into the receiver in a very hushed tone. "She's awake... Yes... Yes... Yes, sir. I will." And with that the call was over.

"Is Flack here? I'd really like to speak with him." Understatement of the century, she realized.

Agent Cheney looked confused. "Who?"

"Detective Don Flack? He was the one who brought me in." Why wouldn't Flack be here? Sure it was D.C., but she knew that he would've followed her anywhere so he could be there when she woke up. For that matter, why wasn't he here, next to her holding her hand? "He is here, isn't he?"

Now Agent Cheney just looked downright uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to wait for my superiors. I can't answer any of your questions."

Jess was getting suspicious now. Why wasn't Flack here? Nothing would've been able to convince him to leave her side unless she were dead. Nothing. "Why isn't he here?" She'd moved past the notion that he was here, and was now only concerned about why he wasn't. Had he been injured too? No, she remembers him carrying her to the car... he was fine. But then _why wasn't he here?_ She needed him, desperately so, and she wasn't one to admit she needed something very often.

The door opened, and Angell's heart leaped into her throat, thinking that Don was finally here, and that everything would be okay when she was safe and warm in his tender embrace. Just as fast as the hope made her stomach tighten, it all disappeared in an instant when she saw two suited men who were most definitely not her partner enter her room.

One was a massive African American man whose mere presence made the room temperature drop at least 5 degrees. His neat goatee, bald head, and dark eyes seemed to scream intimidation. He carried with him a standard issue semi-automatic, and a credentials that looked to be federal, minus the gold badge Agent Cheney carried.

The second man carried a gold shield identical to Cheney's, but his presence was significantly less threatening that his counterpart who obviously needed to shop at the Big & Tall stores. He was slender, and seemed to be lost in the stiff, boxy design of his suit. The gun he carried looked similar to Big & Tall's, only its presence seemed much more out-of-place. His cropped blonde hair appeared heavily styled with hair gel, but his most striking features were his dark green eyes, which surprisingly complimented him well.

Big & Tall spoke first. "Good morning, Miss Angell."

She was about to chew him out for calling her 'miss' and not detective when she realized that she had no idea what time it was. Not having the patience to put on a mask of politeness, Jess asked outright, "Why am I here? And where is my partner? And who the fuck _are _you?" She cringed at her swear, knowing full well she shouldn't have let her censorship slip so easily, but quite frankly, she couldn't bring herself to get concerned over it. The questions she'd just voiced were much more pressing on her mind.

Stickman seemed put off by her language, but Big & Tall seemed oddly pleased and smiled slightly. "Agent Victor Reagan, Homeland Security."

"Special Agent Thomas Reed," Stickman said, apparently prompted by Big & Tall's introduction. "FBI. Head of Organized Crimes."

"Why am I here? And _where is my partner?_" The last question was the one she wanted the answer to the most, but they decided to answer her first question first.

"You've been selected for a highly classified undercover mission. One that would require you to completely sever all ties to your identity as Jessica Angell," Agent Reagan informed, face grim. He'd never been in a situation such as this, and the girl was so young... so young to give up so much. He felt as if the government was giving her no choice. They'd already declared Jessica Angell deceased. They'd forged all the necessary paperwork to prove through a paper trail that Jessica Angell was dead. Suppose she refused the assignment, he mused. What would she do? Go back to her grieving family and friends and say 'Just kidding'? Cruel and unusual punishment was banned in the Bill of Rights, and that situation would be a sickening example of punishment that was both unusual and cruel.

She paused, turning over his words in her head. "'Sever all ties'? What do you mean?" She was afraid of his answer.

He sighed, sympathy softening his features. "You were declared dead after ten hours of surgery. Jessica Angell, by any official means, is deceased."

At that moment, time seemed to stand still. She could scarcely breathe. _I'm dead?_ If she was declared dead then that meant... "No! I have to find Don, tell him I'm okay. And my family... they need to know..." She attempted to sit up and swing her legs over the side of the bed, but cascading waves of pain stole the remaining breath in her lungs, and her motions came to an abrupt halt.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Angell, but this mission is extremely important. If you refuse to take it, it will take several more years to find a suitable person who has the capabilities to perform this assignment to the level we require."

His words barely registered with Jessica, the only words she could think at the moment being that she _is deceased._ no one knew she was alive, save for the federal government. "I... I need to..." her words were becoming garbled, her mind and heart racing.

"I understand that this is quite overwhelming for you." Special Agent Reed didn't sound very understanding.

Jess closed her eyes, taking a deep, cleansing breath in through her nose, and then let it out with a quiet _'ahh'_ through her mouth. She repeated the action a few more times before she reopened her eyes with a new focus and clarity. They wanted her for a mission. She needed to find out the details. "What's the mission?"

Agent Reagan looked relieved that she was willing to listen. "We have an opportunity to introduce an undercover into the Russian gang, the Black Hand. They are a-"

"I know who they are," Jess interrupted as gently as possible. Her knowledge of the Black Hand wasn't by any means complete, but she knew very much about them considering the fact that their main base of operations in the US was run from New York City. In her some private moments, she dreamed of being the one who would finally bring the organization down.

The Black Hand, Черная Рука, was a global criminal network, considered by law enforcement to be one of the worst gangs of the twenty-first century. They were world-renowned for being close to impenetrable to undercovers, and were known to metaphorically 'have a finger in every pie'; they commonly export controlled substances, illegal weaponry, stolen antiquities and merchandise, and recently became known in the human trafficking underworld.

Founded sometime in the fifties in the former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, the Black Hand was the brainchild of long-time criminal Mischa Rusakov. Rusakov was a retired USSR interrogator who dabbled in the criminal element long before he left the military. Known for his brutal interrogation tactics, Mischa made his grand entrance onto the gang scene in obtaining, exporting, and dealing illegal firearms. He started off small with mostly stolen military-grade weapons, and over the years increasing in bulk until Rusakov became a household name when it was revealed that he was able to obtain an undetermined number of nuclear warheads. However, it appears Rusakov never sold off these warheads, keeping them for himself so that he could have all the chips when it came to dealing with threats from either the government or other criminal organizations. It was a conservative but smart move in a business where proper preservation of the organization's future was often put to the side in favor of increasing profit margins.

His illegal weapons trade was a criminal syndicate before it was officially named. Police around the USSR began to know his operation as 'The Hand of Death.' Whether or not he took inspiration at that or not, towards the end of his life, Mischa passed on control of his gang, which he'd officially named The Black Hand, to his eldest daughter, Sabine Rusakov, in the mid-seventies. The Black Hand was passed down through the generations, the head of the organization only being direct descendents of Mischa Rusakov.

Sabine Rusakov, much like her father, became a worldwide criminal phenomenon with her cruel, ruthless, and backstabbing tactics. Under her leadership, the Black Hand finally broke through Russian borders. It's first international base was formed in Japan, and from there, strong support developed in the United States, Brazil, Mexico, and several other countries in Central and South America.

Not long after she established overseas chapters, Sabine married Aleksandr Kaskov. Kaskov's criminal connections were extensive. He'd not long ago formed his own gang, but it's believed that he saw an opportunity for greater capital gains if he merged with the Black Hand. No one was sure if it was a business arrangement or love that drove them to marry.

Aleksandr and Sabine soon had a child- Dmitri Kaskov- in 1980. Following him were Svetlana Kaskov in 1982, and the youngest, twin brothers, Adrik and Alexei in 1989. Recently, it was discovered that Aleksandr was diagnosed with one of the rarest diseases known to man- also, one that is incurable and untreatable. Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. A prion disease that vaguely resembles a severe case of Alzheimer's, CJD causes dementia, confusion, hallucinations, muscular twitches, seizures, deteriorated motor and coordination skills, and worst of all, personality changes that can change the affected person into someone else entirely. If the word on the street was correct, the eldest son, Dmitri was now running the show while his father's mental and physical health slowly deteriorated.

Jess was absolutely shocked that there was even an opportunity to get an undercover into the system. The Black Hand was notorious for being impenetrable to undercovers. And on those rare occasions when an undercover could penetrate the ranks, they could pick them out dangerously easily.

One such occasion included the Black Hand hacking into a TV network's signal, and broadcasting the slaughter of 5 undercover cops on live television to send a bloody and violent message: _if we catch you, we kill you._ It was a horrific event, one that made even civilians aware of the Black Hand's dangerous message. Police precincts across the country ramped up their Organized Crime units after the event, but undercovers became a rarity.

"An undercover opportunity?" Her doubt was clearly evident in her words. "How did the feds pull that one off?"

Special Agent Reed seemed to warm up to her a little. "We can't share with you all of the details until you agree to work with us."

"What would I be required to do?"

It was Reed who answered this time. "We need you to become essentially a big-time criminal who is able to infiltrate the ranks in a reasonable manner, and climb the 'gang leader career ladder,' if you will. The main objective of this mission is to gather enough evidence to prosecute and put away any and all available leaders the gang might have. Many probalems with undercovers that came before was that they were going after relatively small fish. We are going for the whale shark. It would require a highly-trained undercover, and a completely untraceable identity, which you already have. The FBI would train you until you can be put on assignment."

It was essentially what she'd always wanted, but rarely spoke about. The FBI was like the major leagues for cops. Her father had often spoken of the Bureau with great respect, and she remembers wishing she could one day be among them. But this mission... was unlike anything she'd ever done, or even thought she had the capacity to do.

Become a crime lord? Flirt with danger at a much more personal level than she'd ever encountered before? Jessica was a woman who did not doubt her abilities, and one could make the argument that she was slightly cocky about her ability to handle a gun, but this... was something entirely foreign.

As it was foreign, it was also groundbreaking. It was the reason most police officers got into the law enforcement field- to stop crime. And now, there was a magnificent opportunity to strike back at _the heart_ of one of the largest, and most vile criminal organizations ever created. It was that deep-seeded sense of justice, that wish to stop a crime before it started was what prompted Jess to assist Stella in her one-man crusade against Sebastian Diakos- the attractive allure of striking directly back at corruption.

This was an opportunity that would make her famous. She could go down in history as the cop who infiltrated the Black Hand. _The Black Hand._ The cop who took them down. It could be her. It _would_ be her. She wanted to do it-put away hundreds, if not thousands of scumbags and make the entire country, probably the entire _world, _a lot safer.

But, the ever present worry of the repercussions of her 'death' worried her greatly. She was very concerned about her family, but mainly Don. What did he do when he learned she was dead? Would he be okay? She had the utmost faith in her partner as one of the strongest people she knew, but was this mission worth sacrificing her happiness? _Their _happiness?

In the recent weeks, they'd begun to have lengthy discussions about the future, about what they wanted in their future. At some point in their relatively short relationship, Jess had begun to assume she'd end up with Don, that they'd have a couple of kids, move out to the suburbs and be a stereotypical family with a minivan and a Golden Retriever. Both and mutually agreed that the other was a definite part of their future. It was interesting ground they were walking on- they seemed to agree their futures would be with each other, but they hadn't yet said 'I love you,' even though she'd wanted to say it for a long, and she was fairly certain he did too. Could she give up their futures for this? Her heart was torn, desperately wanted to say 'No', to say she needed to be with Don too much to ever accept this assignment. As much as she dearly loved him (she knew all along... she had a feeling he did too), being a cop was as big a part of her as anything, and her sense of duty to the people she served, to fighting crime, would never fade. She knew it was just a big part of Don, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wouldn't want her to abandon her duty, the chance to protect millions, just to be with him. He wouldn't. "Would I... ever be able to go back?" Jess managed.

Agent Reagan seemed to understand, but his face wasn't encouraging. "I suppose it may be possible, but... the likelihood is... not very good."

"So... no, I wouldn't," Jess said slowly. The finality, the enormity, and the absolute, terrifying uncertainty was beginning to dawn on her.

Special Agent Reed finally softened towards her. "It would probably not be possible. Witness Protection would probably require you to stay off the radar, even after the mission is finished, depending on how everything pans out." She appreciated his blunt honesty.

She tried to envision what Don would tell her if he were to hear of what she was being asked to do. It hurt her to envision his face, to imagine not seeing him ever again. There was a truly physical pain in her chest as she imagined it. "My partner's not here, is he?" she asked, finally knowing the answer to the question she'd been so desperate to know.

"I'm afraid not," Reed answered.

She squeezed her eyes shut again. _I'm so sorry , Don. I love you._ "I'll do it." And with that statement, her fate was sealed, and Jessica Angell began to cry.


End file.
